


The Care and Feeding of Castiel

by MalMuses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Angel Lore (Supernatural), Alternate Universe - Canon, Angel Wings, Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Castiel/Dean Winchester Wing Kink, Dean Tries, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grumpy Castiel (Supernatural), Just acres of fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Molting Castiel (Supernatural), Nesting Castiel (Supernatural), Supportive Dean Winchester, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Wing Oil, Wingfic, tropey and shameless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23523742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses
Summary: Dean’s quiet time in the bunker is interrupted by some stranger-than-usual behavior from his angel.Oh, and feathers...there are a lot of those, too.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 1495
Kudos: 4683
Collections: Fav Recs, Mixtape Book Club Podcast - Discussed Fics, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, readers!
> 
> This fic was originally going to just be a little one-shot kinda deal...but it kept getting longer.
> 
> Then, LIZLEESHIPS got her hands on it! 
> 
> Oh, have I...did I _mention_ Liz Lee? Please, allow me to! She's one of my favorite artists and the phenomenal, remarkable human behind [this here Tumblr blog](https://lizleeships.tumblr.com/) and [this here Instagram account](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/?hl=en), which you should definitely, definitely be following? Yes, I teamed up with her for this fluffy, canon wing fic romp and I gotta tell you...A+ experience. 11/10, would squee at again.
> 
> There's not much more to say for this one, folks: thanks to [jscribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jscribbles/pseuds/jscribbles) for always being the wind beneath my wings (and Castiel's, too, this time). If you've never checked out her work, now is a great time because she has some amazing stuff coming up!
> 
> I adore wing fics. This little attempt is tropey, and fluffy, and is full of those key, basic wing fic themes that I personally can never get enough of. I hope some of you enjoy it, too!  
> 
> 
> \- Mal <3

Dean’s favorite time to be in the Bunker was during the downtime between their smaller cases. He enjoyed when the current Big Bad had been vanquished and they weren’t dodging any beings from higher planes who thought humans were just toys, or chess pieces, or ants. The times when it was quieter, when everything was calmer, when they weren’t running in circles…Dean really liked the bunker then. When it was busy, Dean spent his time eternally looping between his bedroom, the war room, and the library, with occasional stops for food and whiskey. It got stuff done, sure, but it was pretty dull.

Sam didn’t seem to mind the bunker grind as much, but then Sam was a man who had “huge ancient library” at the top of the list for his dream home if there ever was one. Dean’s dream home, on the other hand, just had a picket fence, a couple of La-Z-Boys in front of a widescreen TV, and an oven that heated evenly.

It was currently, blessedly, a quiet time.

Dean woke up, stretched, and got to think about delightfully mundane things like doing a grocery run, washing a couple of the cars, maybe even laundering his bedsheets for that perfect just-washed feel atop the memory foam. Later that evening, he thought, he might head out to a bar—a safe hour or so from the bunker, of course—and hustle some pool to top-up their cash reserves a little. It wasn’t something he really needed to do these days, not between the Men of Letters’ offshore accounts and Charlie’s “gifts” from back when Dick Roman was the worst douche they’d faced. But old habits die hard, and Dean would miss the hustle if he just lived off interest as Charlie had set them up to do.

He picked out his current favorite old band tee—an awesome Led Zeppelin tour shirt from Madison Square Garden in ’73 that he’d found at a haunted thrift store in Milwaukee. He slipped on his softest jeans, then laced up his boots, and headed off to the kitchen. The first stop for any good, quiet day was always coffee.

As he approached the bunker kitchen, the warm smell of freshly brewing dark roast Columbian reached his nose. He wasn’t a coffee snob—hell, he’d lived most of his life on the kind you could make in a microwave at an hourly motel—but that was definitely his favorite now that he was old enough and semi-settled enough to have a favorite at all.

Dean sighed contentedly as he approached the machine. 

“I knew there was a reason we kept you around, buddy,” he joked lightly, winking at Castiel as he sat at the kitchen table. The angel was leafing idly through the prior day’s local paper and barely raised his head as Dean passed.

“Nice to know I have some uses,” Castiel said dryly. A little too dryly perhaps, Dean thought.

“Hey, I’m just joking, Cas. You do make good coffee these days, though.”

“I certainly should after your long lecture the other day on exactly how to use a coffee filter.”

Dean shrugged, sloshing dark, liquid positivity into one of the Men of Letters’ short, 1950’s style coffee cups. “So what? Heavenly battle training wasn’t exactly the Starbucks barista program. It’s fine. Even an angel can’t know everything.”

There was a prickly silence behind Dean for a moment, then the legs of the stool Castiel was sitting on scraped unpleasantly across the floor. “So you keep reminding me,” the angel pointed out sourly before stomping his way out of the room.

Dean blinked slowly after him, blowing across the top of his mug. What the hell had that been about? Alright, Castiel was a bit grumpy at the best of times, but having only just surfaced from his memory foam, Dean was fairly certain he’d done nothing to deserve it yet.

Giving a little shrug, Dean decided that everyone was allowed the odd rough morning and raised the cup to his lips, taking a tiny, steaming sip.

Damn, that angel made good coffee.

Sam returned from his morning run not long after, sweaty, glowing, and hideously healthy-looking. Dean greeted him with a nod and a raised brow as Sam made his way to the kitchen, frowning down at his FitBit and doing some awful kind of health-math that Dean never wanted to understand.

“Where’s Cas?” Sam asked idly as he raided the fridge and proceeded to poke his way through the avocados in the bowl on the counter, finding the perfect one.

“Dunno,” Dean said, shrugging again. “He stomped out of here a few minutes ago, probably went to the library. Seems a bit touchy this morning.”

“More than usual?” Sam asked, digging out a green tea bag from the pantry.

“More than usual,” Dean confirmed.

“Alright. Put an English muffin in the toaster for me? I’m gonna grab a quick shower and come back to eat.”

“Sure,” Dean said, moving over to the metal shelving where the bread muffins lived—the poor things that Sam had recently been covering with green gunk. “You’re always more welcome in the kitchen when you don’t smell like exercise.”

Sam muttered something under his breath as he walked off. Dean was sure it was some kind of dig at him and his hatred of working out, but he was in too good a mood to worry about it.

He toasted the muffin, poured hot water on Sam’s green tea, and even got the pit out of Sam’s damned avocado for him, feeling generous that morning. Leaving them on the table, ready for Sam to return, Dean sloshed the last of the coffee into two cups. Taking his own, he picked up the other and wandered toward the library with it. Castiel rarely said no to coffee and maybe it would pull him out of his funk a little.

“Cas?” Dean called, moving down the single stone step and across the room. “Gotcha some coffee, buddy, if you want it.”

Castiel wasn’t seated at the heavy wooden table that they used for research, but the thumping noise of a book dropping to the floor, as if Dean had startled him, revealed the angel’s presence in the stacks.

Dean stuck his head around the edge of the row of shelves, giving Castiel a grin. “Let’s try this again: Good morning.”

Castiel was mid-bend to pick up the book he’d dropped. He froze for a second as Dean spoke, but then quickly grabbed the chunky tome, shoving it back onto the shelf almost guiltily before striding up to Dean. 

“Good morning,” he said gruffly.

“Brought you some coffee,” Dean said, smiling as he raised the second cup up a little.

“I—uh—yes. Yes, thank you.” Castiel sounded oddly flustered. He reached for the cup, wrapping his fingers around it, and took it from Dean with a nervous-looking nod.

Before Dean could do much more than frown, about to ask his friend what the hell was up, Castiel gave another sharp nod and strode away again, moving back out to the war room.

Dean craned his neck in puzzlement, watching him go. He leaned back against the library shelf, sipping at his coffee thoughtfully. A minute passed, and then he heard the heavy thunk of the bunker’s front door opening and closing. Castiel’s coffee cup sat on the war room table, barely sipped, if at all.

Sam reappeared, barefoot and bare-chested with a towel turban atop his head. “Who was that?” he asked in concern, jerking a thumb toward the staircase that led to the door.

“Cas,” said Dean. “Something’s really ruffled his feathers this morning, for sure.”

Sam gave him a clueless shrug, and Dean gave him a half-smile in return. Clearly neither of them had any idea why Castiel had more of a stick up his ass than usual. That was reassuring; at least it wasn’t something that Dean had done and simply not noticed, that Sam could crow over.

“Your breakfast stuff is in the kitchen,” Dean said. “I’m gonna finish my coffee then head out to Hastings. Gonna do a bit of a kitchen restock while it’s quiet, so lemme know if you need anything.”

“I’ll make a list,” Sam said, his towel bobbing as he headed off to enjoy his gross, green breakfast.

Dean strolled back to the library, sipping at the last of his coffee. He idly regarded the bookshelves. What had Castiel been looking at, in here, that he seemed so weirded-out to be caught reading? 

He made his way to the spot a few stacks down where Castiel had been standing and looked at the bookshelf. The book Castiel had picked up from the floor and shoved unceremoniously back onto the shelf stuck out further than the others, so it was easy to spot.

Pulling it out with one hand, Dean regarded the heavy leather cover as he strolled back to the kitchen to put his cup in the sink. ‘ _Heavenly Species’,_ the title proclaimed, with a subtitle letting the reader know that it was ‘ _An In-Depth Study of the Metaphysics, Anatomy, and Habits of All Heavenly Creatures’._ It was thick, and old, and written by someone named Harif Ala Al-din before being translated by a helpful-sounding Tracy Shadwell.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean questioned, waving the book at his brother where he sat at one end of the table, sprinkling some black things onto his snotty-looking toasted English muffin. “Where’d we get this one? I haven’t seen it before.”

Sam looked up for a moment, reading the title of the leather-bound tome. “Oh, the angel stuff? We got them when Garth sent that team out to the old warehouse in Geneva. Remember? The one that Crowley used to use.”

“Huh,” said Dean. “Alright, then.” 

He rinsed out his coffee cup one-handed and tucked the book under his arm. It seemed like it might actually be interesting, not that he’d say as much out loud. Despite knowing Castiel for well over ten years, Dean realized that he didn’t really know that much about angels. It almost seemed rude _not_ to read it, the more he thought about it.

“I’m gonna grab my jacket and head out,” Dean told Sam, who was engrossed on his phone. “Text me that list.”

Sam made a mumble of agreement, and Dean dawdled back to his bedroom to grab his khaki jacket and deposit the book on his nightstand.

Baby was purring herself awake and Dean was digging through his shoebox of old cassette tapes by the time Castiel appeared next to her driver’s side door. Dean looked up as a shadow fell over him, smiling easily to see the angel.

“Hey Cas. Did you wanna ride with me to Hastings?”

“Uh.” Castiel didn’t seem sure. He rolled his shoulders, looking torn, as Dean slipped one of his favorite mixtapes into the tape deck.

“Not one of the great questions of the universe, Cas,” Dean pointed out. “I’m going to stop at a diner and grab some decent breakfast, then I’m driving north to get supplies. You can come or not, it’s not a big deal.”

Silently, Castiel nodded and progressed around the car to slide into the passenger seat. “You didn’t want Sam to come?” he asked, settling his seatbelt across his trench coat.

“Nah,” Dean shrugged. “I spend far too much time with him in the bunker, as it is. I don’t want to hang out with him today.”

Castiel tilted his head as Dean pulled out onto the quiet road that led down to the bunker. “But you do want to ‘hang out’ with me today?”

Dean could hear the invisible air-quotes and he bit down a small grin. “Yeah. Of course. You’re different.”

Castiel watched the side of Dean’s face steadily for a minute as Dean drove. Dean could feel it. Castiel’s stares had a weight to them that was hard to miss, but after a moment Castiel seemed to let whatever it was pass and turned his attention out of the window.

They drove in comfortable silence. Dean tapped out the bass to Metallica’s _Black Album_ on the edge of the steering wheel, humming along to his favorite parts. Castiel, Dean noted quite fondly, similarly tapped his fingers on the door, resting his arm on the window. Dean had the windows rolled down, letting in the early summer breeze, and all-in-all it was a pleasant, perfect drive. If Dean kept sneaking looks at Castiel’s profile in the soft morning sunlight, no one ever had to know.

It didn’t take too long to pull up to one of Dean’s favorite diners, just outside of town on the other side of Lebabon.

“I am all-in for a good pile of bacon and pancakes this morning,” Dean said, clapping and rubbing his hands together once he’d cut the engine. He’d circled the lot three times to pick a space to park Baby in, and Castiel hadn’t said a word about it, both used to and entirely accepting of Dean’s automotive idiosyncrasies. (Not too far from the door, visible from the window, but shaded enough to keep Baby out of the morning sun.) “You want some more coffee?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, already unfolding his tall, built frame from the car. “I’d like some more coffee. I’m a little tired this morning.”

Dean raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. How the angel could be tired when he didn’t even sleep was an interesting question, but the little voice in the back of Dean’s head that said, _maybe if you’d taken the time to learn more about angels, you’d know why_ , stopped him from asking.

Inside, they were seated in a quiet booth, away from other customers, and Dean ordered them both coffee while he perused the small menu. He knew what he wanted already, but it never hurt to have a peek at the specials, in his book.

“Can I take a look?” Castiel asked quietly.

Dean looked up, surprised. He slid the laminated card across the table to Castiel. “Sure, buddy. You hungry?” he asked casually, trying to hide an odd, low-level concern he couldn’t name or shake.

“A little,” Castiel confessed, not looking at Dean.

Dean ordered himself a plate of bacon and pancakes, and after a moment’s hesitation that Dean attempted to encourage him through with a smile, Castiel did the same.

The waitress returned very quickly with their plates, much to his stomach’s delight, and topped up their coffees. Once she’d departed, Dean picked up the syrup bottle that she’d left them and drizzled it generously all over his stack before offering it to Cas.

“Syrup?” he said.

Castiel squinted at the bottle. “Do you recommend it?”

“Why not?” Dean said, reaching across to gloop the thick maple-flavored liquid across the three fluffy pancakes on Castiel’s plate. “It all tastes the same to you anyway, right?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Castiel said with a tiny sigh. He rolled his shoulders, a slight wiggle to them as though he had an itch. “Though I think I’m learning a little. Some things have a bit more flavor than others.”

“Less molecule-y?” Dean asked, shovelling a chunk of pancake into his mouth.

Castiel nodded, nibbling politely on the end of a piece of bacon.

“But still no PB&J?” Dean clarified.

“No. Lots of molecules.”

“Shame,” Dean said, reaching to take a gulp of coffee. “PB&J was your favorite when you were human.”

Castiel’s head tilted slightly, the bacon paused in midair. “You remember that?”

If Dean was, perhaps, the tiniest bit offended that Castiel thought he wouldn’t, he tried not to show it. “Uh, ‘course I do. You—” _You’re important,_ he’d almost said, before catching himself at the last moment. “You’re my best friend. I remember stuff.”

Castiel nodded slowly as his eyes drifted back down to his plate.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, though Dean couldn’t help but be distracted. Watching Castiel load his fork with syrupy pancakes and push them into his mouth, past his plush, pillowy lips…

Dean’s crush on the angel was so much easier to ignore whenever the world was ending. The in-between times, when it was quiet, when they were peaceful—domestic, even—it became a lot harder. Luckily, he was distracted by Castiel awkwardly rolling his shoulders once more.

“You alright, Cas?” Dean pointed to Castiel’s trench-coated shoulders with his fork. “You’ve been doing that a lot, today.”

Castiel blinked and his eyes went a little wide. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said rather too quickly, his eyes back down to his plate as he stuffed his mouth with bacon.

Dean was about to push further, trying to work out what the hell was going on with Castiel today, when Castiel’s phone buzzed audibly in his coat pocket, vibrating against the table edge.

With an expression that Dean thought was uncomfortably close to relief, Castiel dug into his coat and grabbed at it. “It’s Sam,” he said, rather too quickly, already slipping out of the booth. “It’s loud in here, I’ll go outside.”

Before Dean could protest, he was left alone in the oddly quiet diner.

Their waitress hustled over after a minute, smiling awkwardly. “Lovers’ tiff?” she asked, tilting her head toward the door. “Not that it’s any of my business. But I’ve worked here ten years, so I’ve seen plenty of folks run out like that.”

Dean blinked, his mouth falling open. “I—uh—no. No, we’re just friends.”

“Oh,” she said, blinking in surprise. “I’m so sorry. I just thought—well. Apologies. Two checks?”

“One,” Dean said, distracted.

The embarrassed waitress hurried away, saying something under her breath about complimentary pastries as she fled. Amused, Dean gave out a low chuckle. It wasn’t the first time that he and Castiel had been mistaken for a couple, though he had no idea why. It was at least preferable to the many, many times that people had assumed the same about him and Sam.

Looking over to where Castiel had been sitting, something caught Dean’s eye on the seat.

A single black feather rested on the red leather. It was long—at least the length of Dean’s forearm, or even longer—and pretty mangled-looking. Frowning, Dean reached around the edge of the circular table to pick it up. He ran one finger along the rough, twisted edges, the vanes bending under his light pressure. It looked terrible, if he was honest; skinny and bare in places. There was something about it, though, something that Dean couldn’t take his eyes away from; every time he touched it, the feather seemed to shimmer with rainbow light—like a pool of black oil being struck by the sun.

Dean’s stomach clenched as he turned his attention to the other side of the feather. The burnt, crisp edges—the damaged parts long fallen away but the scarred edges still carrying their story—left no doubt about who the feather belonged to.

Swallowing harshly, Dean managed to quickly shove the feather inside the front of his jacket as the waitress came back.

He thanked her and tipped well, especially as she’d brought a plastic shell with two crisp apple pastries as an apology for her incorrect assumption. Dean smiled and told her it was fine, then headed out the door.

Castiel was waiting next to the Impala.

“Dean—” he began as Dean unlocked her doors.

“It’s fine,” Dean said, flashing Castiel a warm smile as he folded himself into the driver’s seat. “Whatever it is man, don’t worry about it.”

Castiel eyed him slightly suspiciously but nodded as they set off once more, headed for Hastings.

Sam’s list turned out to be fairly short, even if it was full of hippy-dippy shit. He’d called Castiel, it seemed, to explain to him which types of tea he wanted, as it appeared that Sam thought Castiel could do a better job of picking them out than Dean could. Dean wasn’t even going to fight that one, and simply pointed the angel toward the tea section at the grocery store.

He wandered the aisles, half thinking about what he’d like to cook and half thinking about Castiel. The dude was _off_ , more so than he usually was. He was also reading books about angels—shouldn’t he already _know_ all about angels?—and leaving feathers on diner seats. Thanks to all the good luck he’d had in his life (ha!), Dean’s mind immediately went to all the terrible possibilities. Cas was dying. Cas was sick. He had, like… wing cancer, or some shit. Could angels even get sick? In over ten years, the only time Castiel had ever even had so much as a sniffle was when he’d had issues with his grace (or other angels’ grace, as the case may be.) Was this related to that? Dean wanted to ask, but Castiel had made it pretty clear that he wasn’t in the mood for a BFF-ly chat about what was up with him.

So, Dean glided on down the aisles, worrying.

Castiel was quiet all the way home, too. Which, Dean had to admit, was perfectly normal—the dude was hardly a chatterbox. But Dean couldn’t help but be hypersensitive to it, attempting to engage him on several occasions only to receive nothing more than a short, sharp reply. The more Dean looked at him, the more uncomfortable he looked; he rolled his shoulders oddly and shifted in his seat, practically a fidget by his own usually motionless standards.

Dean pulled up to the bunker and eased Baby down into the garage. Castiel exited the car before Dean could even think to ask one more time if he was okay—he grabbed an armload of the shopping bags and headed straight to the door that led on into the rest of the bunker. Before he stepped through, though, he did pause.

“Thank you, Dean,” he said very quietly. “I appreciate you asking me to ride with you today. It was a nice distraction.”

Dean blinked in puzzlement, but Castiel was already gone, leaving Dean clutching at an armload of Sam’s tea.

_Distraction from what?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for today, y'all!
> 
> Updates will be Tuesdays and Fridays. The fic is only seven chapters, so you will have it all in relatively quick succession.
> 
> You know what's really exciting, though?  
> 
> 
> **There's more art to come!**
> 
> If you enjoyed the beautiful creations in this chapter, would you be kind enough to [give them a little reblog over on Tumblr?](https://lizleeships.tumblr.com/post/614779829311717376/ohmygod-guys-its-finally-here-i-cant-even) There's nothing better for showing an artist how much they enrich our fic worlds.
> 
> \- Mal <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, readers!
> 
> Thank you SO much for the lovely response to the first chapter of this fic! Liz and I both really appreciate how much you seem to be enjoying the story and the wonderful art!
> 
> Speaking of art...
> 
> There's another piece coming up down there ;)
> 
> I hope you are all well, and safe, and doing the best you can in our crazy world right now.
> 
> \- Mal <3

Dean did one last sweep of his room for discarded plaid before grabbing his laundry basket and heading down the hall. In the couple of hours since he’d been back from the store, Dean had been busy nesting. Or, y’know, a word that was less embarrassing. But fuck it, nesting. 

He’d put away the groceries—and no, he did not want Sam’s help, thank you, because he always put stuff in the wrong place—and laundered his bedsheets. Once he’d put them back on the bed, crisp and clean, he just had to do one final load of laundry with all his clothes for the week, and then go start making some dinner.

With the basket on his hip, Dean started to head toward the bunker’s sizable laundry room. Dean and Sam were the only people using it these days, but the huge room was a remnant of a time when there had been an entire coterie of Men of Letters living down in the bunker. As it was, Dean had machines for days and plenty of elbow room. On the way to put his last couple of loads in, humming  _ Smoke on the Water _ under his breath, Dean was so distracted, thinking what kind of dish to whip up for dinner, that he almost crashed into Castiel in the corridor. Castiel had appeared from nowhere, right outside the laundry room—as if he’d been  _ inside _ the laundry room, except Castiel had no reason to be in there—and Dean hadn’t been paying attention.

“Dude!” Dean exclaimed, reaching down to grab a t-shirt that his sudden stop had caused to slip from the top of his basket. “Wear a bell, geez.”

“S-sorry!” Castiel stammered uncharacteristically, before striding hurriedly up the corridor toward the dormitories. His coat was all askew and he looked oddly flustered.

_ What the hell is up with him? _ Dean wondered again, shaking his head as he moved into the laundry area. The light was off, and he rested his hip on the wall to balance his full basket while he flicked it on. He could have sworn he left the light on when he took the sheets out of the dryer, knowing he was going to come right back. 

Shrugging, Dean headed over to the closest machine and put his basket down. He grabbed the detergent from the cabinet where they kept it and filled up the little cup they used to measure. He opened the top of the machine and was about to pour the liquid down inside when something white caught his eye. Had he forgotten a pillowcase? He frowned. Nah; he’d have noticed when he was making the bed if he was one short. Bending over the machine, he reached down inside to pull out the white fabric.

It was a shirt—a dress shirt. It wasn’t Dean’s, and unless Sam had been on a really formal date or a fake-FBI case recently that Dean didn’t know about, it wasn’t his either. So that only left one option. But since when did Cas do laundry? Didn’t he, like…grace-clean somehow? Dean didn’t know how, only that he had never, ever, seen the angel do laundry.

The shirt was crumpled, screwed up and hastily thrown in the machine by the looks of it. Dean smoothed it out, holding it up. It was definitely Castiel’s. Dean would recognize that collar anywhere, he’d stared at it often enough, observing the tan Adam’s apple above it bob when the angel spoke. Turning the shirt over in his hands, his hand caught something damp across the back. Moving over to the light, he tilted the shirt toward it. All across the shoulders and down the shoulder blades, something clear and oily glistened in the light. Frowning, Dean scratched at it experimentally before bringing the shirt up to sniff. It smelled vaguely of something musky and earthy, though not unpleasant in the slightest. What  _ was  _ that stuff? After another experimental scratch, Dean shrugged and threw the shirt back into the washer, figuring he could clean it with his laundry.

Once he’d started the machine, Dean strolled back to his room. He’d planned on watching a movie in the Dean Cave that afternoon, but he decided that instead he’d go and chill on his fresh bed, throw on some Doctor Sexy, and maybe take a little peek at the book Castiel seemed to have been reading that morning.

Maybe it would have some clues about angels who were moody, jumpy, losing feathers, and doing laundry.

Dean settled in, his feet kicked up on the bed while Doctor Sexy rattled around in a broom closet with his intern, getting more action than Dean had for months (and not that he would admit it, years). 

_ Heavenly Species, _ Dean soon discovered, was incredibly dry and hard to get through. But, at the same time, it was oddly fascinating. Knowing that the species involved (he’d skipped straight to the section marked  _ Seraphim _ because he was sure he’d heard Castiel called that once) were not just abstract concepts, but were actually his walking, talking best friend and his brothers, made it a lot more interesting than it would otherwise have been.

Slowly, a few things started to become apparent.

_ Angels become flighty when distressed. Their tendency to teleport or fly away abruptly when upset is ruled by their fight-or-flight biology, which is much stronger than in humans.  _

Huh. Well, that explained a lot of the times that Castiel had gone poof, for sure.

_ Unsupported or lonely Seraphim, separated from the Heavenly plane, may be found isolating themselves for weeks at a time. This is due to the flock-like, familial nature of angels. Without siblings (though unrelated, in the human sense), or a molt companion, the angel may fall into a state quite similar to human depression. Seraphim are particularly prone to this, as many lower orders of angel will not consider it fitting to associate with them, leading often to personality quirks that some humans would call introversion or awkwardness. _

Dean lowered the book back to his thighs, almost wishing he’d never started reading.

The urge to track Castiel down somewhere in the bunker and give him a hug, to tell him that he’d never been alone or unsupported—no matter how shitty Dean was at communicating—was almost overwhelming. But given how much of the past few years they’d spent angry at each other, Dean wondered if such a thing would even be welcome.

Swallowing down the rest of the beer he’d brought to the bedroom with him, Dean dug back into the book, Doctor Sexy and his conquests long forgotten.

_ In Heaven, under ideal circumstances, angels would molt yearly. Their wings (one pair for cupids and lower orders, three pairs for Seraphim and Archangels) shed feathers to maintain healthy plumage and prime grace absorption. The process is uncomfortable, however, and leaves the angel very exposed. So, in any situation where an angel does not feel safe, molt will not occur. Molt outside of Heaven is exceedingly rare, and usually only occurs in the case of injury to the wings, wherein new plumage is required. _

Dean stared down at the page.

Molting.

Castiel was molting. But how? He wasn’t in Heaven, so it was rare. And why now? Castiel’s wings had been destroyed when he fell. Why hadn’t he regrown the feathers before now, if he could? Dean thought back over their lives for the last decade, one disaster rolling on and on, into the next, and the next. 

It was quite likely, he realized, that Castiel simply hadn’t felt comfortable or safe, until now, until the Big Bads were all safely gone. Or at least gone for the time being.

Dean turned to the nightstand, reaching across to pick up the fallen feather that he’d found in the diner and had carried in his coat all day. Thanks to the book, Dean now realized that this feather was actually one of Castiel’s smaller feathers, despite how big it seemed to him; a covert feather, he’d learned. There were other types, all different shapes and with different purposes, and all of them would be shed, methodically, throughout a molt.

The book described the process of molting as distinctly uncomfortable, something that angels helped each other with up in Heaven. Why hadn’t Castiel said anything? Why did he feel like he had to do this alone?

Dean sat quietly for a long time, flicking back and forth through the book.

The main thing the book brought to light for Dean was the simple fact that Castiel wasn’t human. Oh, maybe that sounded dumb—he knew Cas wasn’t human. But it was so easy to look at Cas—human-shaped, handsome, breathtaking Cas—and just forget that wasn’t what he  _ was.  _ He was so very  _ Other _ , and Dean was beginning to doubt that he’d ever truly understood that.

Was Castiel really as lonely as the book suggested he probably was? 

Why hadn’t he ever  _ said _ anything? Why hadn’t he asked for help, for company, for whatever it was he needed?

Dean knew the answer, he realized, lowering his empty bottle to the nightstand with a dull  _ clunk _ . Castiel was prideful, a trait all angels seemed to share, and on top of that—Dean had simply never asked. He’d never shown any interest in what Castiel  _ was _ , what he needed. He’d just led the angel through apocalypse after apocalypse, always assuming that he’d be there, expecting that Castiel would stand by him when he needed. Even though he hadn’t always done the same.

Dean was gonna need more beer.

A couple of hours later, in the early evening, Dean knocked on the door of Castiel’s bedroom with the final laundry basket of clothes under his arm. “Bedroom” was a misnomer, Dean considered, as the angel didn’t actually sleep—but it was a room in the bunker that was known to be just Cas’, and it did have a bed in it, technically speaking.

There was a pause before a response came. 

“Yes?” Cas called.

It wasn’t exactly, “Hey, buddy, come on in!” but Dean was going to work with what he could get. Pushing the door open slightly, he stayed respectfully at the threshold, just sticking his head around the door.

“Hey, Cas,” he said, smiling warmly. “I’m just bringing you your shirt. I washed and dried it for you, got it nice and clean. I even used some of that fancy lavender spray stuff in the iron…thought you might like that.”

Castiel sat on the bed, his feet on the floor and his fists pushing down into the mattress as if he’d been hunched over forward, uncomfortable. He squinted up at Dean, looking uncertain and somewhat suspicious. “Lavender stuff?”

“Honestly, I think it was Rowena’s. But it smells good,” Dean said with a little shrug. He held the crisply folded shirt out toward Castiel.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, somewhat uncertainly, reaching forward to take it. His stretch parted his trench coat, revealing a strip of his bare chest beneath, and Dean did his best not to stare.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “Once you’re dressed, I was wondering if you wanted to do something tonight?”

Castiel squinted harder. “Do something?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, forcing a casual shrug. “I was thinking about going out and hustling some pool, but honestly I think I’d rather stay in. Curl up and watch a movie in my room or something. You could join me, if you wanted.”

“I…” Castiel trained off, looking so baffled that it made Dean’s chest hurt. Was it really so surprising, after everything, that Dean would just want to spend time with him?

“Just think about it, okay?” Dean said, trying not to sound as disappointed as he felt. “I’m going to whip up some dinner, right quick. Then I’ll be in my room.”

“Okay,” Castiel said, nodding.

Dean turned to begin to move back to the corridor but then paused, having another thought. “You want a burger, Cas?”

Castiel’s mouth opened but no sound came out.

“Cheeseburger,” Dean said temptingly. “You liked those. Unless that was just, y’know, Famine talking.”

“No, I—yes. Yes, please. I would enjoy one of your burgers, Dean,” Castiel responded softly.

Dean might have been imagining it, but he thought that perhaps the angel’s tense shoulders were relaxing slightly. Happy enough with that for the time being, Dean nodded and closed the door behind him.

He’d spent a couple of hours poring over  _ Heavenly Species _ in between working on the laundry and puttering around his room, cleaning up a little. He wanted to gain every last sliver of information that Harif Ala Al-din could share.

He was aware that his actions now, his need to help, had more to do with his own guilt at how shitty a friend he’d been than anything else. And maybe a decent amount to do with his unending crush on the grumpy, fashion-challenged angel. But did it matter, he reasoned, if it meant he finally stepped up and tried to be there for Castiel, for a change? He figured not, and so he’d made plans.

Alright, so the plans  _ could _ backfire. They  _ could _ be embarrassing, and they  _ could _ piss Cas off, if he got something wrong. But they also might help Castiel feel better, and that was all Dean was going for.

Heading off to the kitchen, Dean rolled up his sleeves and set to work.

Grocery day was the best day for Dean to make his homemade burgers. The meat was fresh, the lettuce was still crisp and not picked from a head of greens that had been sitting in the back of the refrigerator for a few days. The tomatoes were still firm and the buns were at their freshest. On grocery day, Dean could make the  _ perfect _ burger. 

He threw every bit of effort he could into making stacked, cheesy burgers for himself, Sam, and Castiel.

“Special occasion?” Sam enquired, settling down on one of the kitchen stools. His giant frame made the stool look like a piece of dollhouse furniture, by comparison, and it squeaked under him. The kitchen was just as old as the rest of the bunker, when it came down to it, though almost all of the furniture in the place had held up arguably well, given that it’d been abandoned way back in ’58.

“Careful you don’t crush the chairs with those giant muscles, Sasquatch.”

“They held your ass after that all-you-can-eat pie day in Grand Island, so I think I’m fine.”

Dean let Sam have that one, focusing on flipping the burgers. “Not a special occasion,” he clarified. “Something that’s normal and should be even more normal. Just gonna stay here and hang out with Cas tonight.”

“Okay,” said Sam, dragging the word out so that it was just a little too long to be casual. “And what has Cas done to deserve your best-burger attention, given that he doesn’t eat?”

“He can eat if he wants,” Dean said, frowning down at the pan.  _ Not now, Sam, come on. _

“Sure, sure,” Sam said, still far too casual. “You just, y’know, you cook for family or dates, that’s all.”

“Cas  _ is _ family,” Dean snapped. “Stop acting like this is weird. He’s just—Can’t I just do something nice for him?”

“Oh, yes,” Sam said very pointedly. “Honestly, I’ve spent the last couple of years wishing that you would, which is exactly why I’m sitting here right now and asking what you’re up to. Because if you’re just trying to butter Cas up to get something from him, or demand he does something your way, then those burgers aren’t leaving this kitchen.”

Dean spluttered, turning incredulously to his brother with his spatula raised. “How can you—” He stopped himself suddenly, gripping the handle of the frying pan tighter. He knew, he did. He knew why Sam would say that, why he’d think that, why it appeared the way it did. “I know I messed up with Cas a lot, the last few years,” he managed after a moment. “But you gotta give me a chance to start fixing it. And right now, there are ways I can try to, okay?”

Sam opened and closed his mouth, his shoulders relaxing, but he still looked confused. In the end, he shrugged and went with, “Dude still doesn’t eat, though.”

“I know,” Dean said. “But he’s kinda tired. External energy sources might help him feel better.”

“External energy sources?” Sam quoted, raising an eyebrow. “You accidentally swallow a dictionary along with your humble pie?”

“Shut it, bitch,” Dean said, flicking a lettuce leaf over in his direction. “Prep the damn toppings, since you’re so good at rabbit food.”

Smiling, Sam rose and moved over to the counter, standing to Dean’s right. “Whatever the deal is,” he said quietly after a moment, in a tone that suggested it was his final comment, “as long as you’re making Cas happy for a change, it’s cool with me. Jerk.”

Dean nodded slowly. That was the plan. He hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for today, folks!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Did you like Liz's art of Cas all hunched up in his trenchcoat? I loved it, I just want to smush his little cheeks, haha!
> 
> If you enjoyed it, would you consider [reblogging it on tumblr?]()
> 
> I'm also [on Tumblr, over here!](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Do you think Dean's plan to help Cas is going to go how he hopes?
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, folks! 
> 
> \- Mal <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers!
> 
> I hope everyone who celebrates it had a good Easter weekend! Even though it was a long weekend for me it seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, and work this morning was an ugly shock, haha! Luckily, being able to share this chapter with you all--with more art by the amazing [Liz]()\--is already turning my day around!
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- Mal

Dean rapped smartly on Castiel’s bedroom door as he passed. “Dinner’s ready!” he called, not waiting to see if the angel followed. Instead, he hurried on down to his room, waiting just inside the door and biting his lip.

This could help. Could make Castiel feel more accepted, more understood, more at home. Or, it could be presumptuous and awful and make Castiel mad.

Great.

Biting his lip, Dean waited.

He could hear Castiel’s boots beating out his steady, heavy gait on the concrete floor of the corridor, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls as he came closer. His motion stopped as he reached Dean’s bedroom door, and for a long moment, silence fell.

Then, “Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean asked hopefully, looking over to where Castiel stood, frozen in the doorway.

“What—what is this?”

#### 

Dean reached up to awkwardly rub at the back of his neck, shrugging nonchalantly. “It’s not a big deal, buddy. I’d just heard that you—that angels, I mean—might, uh, like this. This kinda thing. Sometimes, anyway.”

Castiel stood staring straight forward, his eyes locked onto Dean’s bed. It was piled up with pillows, a veritable nest of softness. ‘Nest’ being the important word. Dean had gathered the spare pillows from the other dorms in the corridor and formed a cozy little ‘U’ of pillows on the bed, pointing toward the TV.

“Where did you hear that?” Castiel asked. He sounded suspicious—and Dean thought perhaps a bit panicky—but he was stepping forward, regardless, as if he was pulled toward the bed.

Dean closed the door behind him, hoping he’d gotten at least one part right. “Can’t really remember,” Dean lied, waving dismissively at the bed. “Pick up a lot, y’know, doing what we do. I try to remember the angel stuff, though.” That was at least true—he really would have tried to remember anything that had related to Castiel. He’d just never thought to seek it out.

Castiel slowly approached, until he was standing nervously at the side of the bed. “You try to remember angel things?” he asked, sounding a bit lost.

Dean pushed aside the tiny, offending hurt in his chest at Castiel’s tone. “Yeah. Of course. I mean, you’re—”  _ For fucks sake, Dean, use your words for a change. _ “You are an angel, after all. And you’re important to me.”

Castiel’s big, wide, blue eyes rose from the bed finally to lock on to Dean. “But you’ve never done this before. I mean, we’ve watched movies in here, but we usually just sit on your bed and face the television, while maintaining a carefully enforced, socially acceptable human distance.”

Dean blinked. He didn’t have to put it like that, geez.  _ Can just one person accept that I’m trying to be nice? What the hell?  _ Dean took a deep breath and walked over to the side of the bed, coming up behind Cas. “Well, that was my bad. Okay?”

Nodding, Castiel turned his eyes back to the mattress. He looked…different, and it took Dean a second to recognize the carefully contained longing in his eyes. He  _ did _ want to snuggle down in the nest, no matter how cautious he was being about it. Dean breathed a little easier.

Reaching out slowly, Dean rested a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and nodded sideways toward the bed. “So, you up for it? I just—I mean, I thought this might be nice for you, but I’m not forcing you or anything.”

“No, no, this is…” Castiel trailed off and gave the mattress-nest a small smile. “This is very nice. Kind. It’s thoughtful of you, really. To think of angels and…how we’re different.”

“To think of you,” Dean clarified.

Castiel blinked.

“I don’t really give a shit about other angels, Cas. I wanna do things that you might like, whether they’re human things or angel things, honestly.”

“Oh,” said Castiel, sounding a little lost, still, but also a little happy.

Dean moved his hand, tugging at the shoulder of Castiel’s tan trench coat just slightly. “Why don’t you take your coat off for a change? Gotta be more comfortable without it,” he suggested.  _ Not to mention it’s probably itchy. _

“I, uh—” Castiel froze, suddenly tense again. “Perhaps I’ll just leave it on.”

Dean frowned slightly but didn’t push, and it was only when Castiel was lowering himself down to sit stiffly on one side of the bed that the thought hit Dean: Castiel didn’t want to take off his coat because he was probably covered in wing oil again, already. He didn’t want Dean to see, thought Dean wouldn’t understand.

He thought of telling Castiel that it was a perfectly normal, healthy bodily function for an angel and that he shouldn’t be ashamed, but it felt too similar to the awkward wet-dream conversation he’d had to have with Sam when he was twelve. So, he left that one to come back to later.

“Any requests?” Dean asked, moving around to the other side of the bed and lowering himself down to sit on top of the covers. He had to admit, this whole nest thing might have something going for it—it was warm and felt very cozy, like he and Cas were in their own little world. Dean made sure to keep a little space between them, though; that “socially acceptable distance,” as Castiel had called it. He wanted to close it…hell, he’d wanted to close it for a decade. But Castiel was an angel—something he knew now more than ever—and just wouldn’t want the same kind of closeness that Dean did.

It didn’t mean, though, that Dean wouldn’t greedily take any inch he could get. He’d been in love for years, but he lived off scraps. He’d learned to give himself a break about it, eventually. As long as he never made Cas uncomfortable, he’d treasure the little moments he got.

“You don’t have a movie picked out?” Castiel asked, looking surprised. He was sitting rather stiffly, which was disappointing to see, but Dean was hopeful he’d relax more as the evening went on.

“I thought you might like to choose this time,” Dean said, ignoring the fact that he’d never asked Castiel to choose before and was only now realizing that.

“Oh,” Castiel said quietly, sounding bewildered once more. “Well, I know you like—”

“Cas!” Dean took a breath, trying not to sound as exasperated. Why did everyone seem set on making this so hard? “Dude, just choose whatever you want. It’s okay, I’m not gonna say a thing. Just—here,” he said, shoving the remote over toward Castiel. “Pick.”

With a tiny crease at his brow, Castiel turned to the TV and began scrolling through Netflix. Reaching over to the nightstand, squishing down a few pillows to do so, Dean grabbed the two plates of burgers that he’d prepared. As Castiel selected a nature documentary—because of course he did—Dean offered him one of the plates.

“Here you go,” Dean said, smiling proudly. “One Dean Winchester special with extra cheese. Pickles on the side, because I wasn’t sure if you’d like them.”

Castiel gaped at the burger. “This isn’t just a basic cheeseburger, Dean—you really went to all this effort, for me?”

Dean hovered awkwardly, still holding the plate. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I don’t know a lot about angels, okay. Not as much as I should, given how long I’ve known you. But you said you were tired and I just thought…” he trailed off, biting the inside of his lip awkwardly.

Castiel took the plate.

It was such a minor victory, but somehow it felt like real progress and Dean beamed as he leaned back into the comfy pillow nest. “Alright,” Dean said, pointing one of his homemade fries at the TV. “What is that racoon-looking thing, and which one of those things is it going to try and eat?”

Castiel gave a small chuckle—the best sound he’d made all day—and began to explain the hunting habits of olinguito to Dean. They munched their way through their burgers, Castiel making a few small sounds that Dean thought might actually have been from enjoyment. The documentary rolled on to other creatures—which Dean didn’t know the names of, probably because they hadn’t ever tried to kill a human or possess them—and they slipped into comfortable silence, sipping on the beers Dean had brought.

Or at least, Dean thought it was comfortable. Until, picking at his bottle label, Castiel spoke up.

“Dean? Why are you doing this?”

Dean had thought that maybe Castiel would ask, but he didn’t have a particularly great answer prepared. Just a bit of the truth. “Because you deserve it. And sometimes I’m an ass and make everything about me.”

Castiel, to Dean’s slight offense, didn’t even bother to protest or disagree. He simply nodded and went back to his beer.

“Can I ask something, though?” Dean said, figuring that if it was already awkward, he might as well.

“Of course.”

“So, nests. Real ones, I mean, not just something to kinda make you feel comfy and cozy.”

Castiel looked wary already, but he nodded for Dean to continue.

“I heard that they’re personal to each angel. That you just, like…make a space where you feel comfy sometimes, when you need it, and you kinda personalize it with stuff that makes it yours and makes you happy.”

“Well—yes,” Castiel admitted. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Guess I just didn’t get what that meant, because you guys are like…wibbly wobbly light. You don’t really have possessions and stuff. Right? So, how do you personalize something?”

“We can, though,” Castiel corrected quietly, his eyes on his bottle. “It’s not common, we certainly don’t need possessions to survive either physically or mentally, as a human would. But we can form attachments, imbue things with memory, much as a human would. So, sometimes when an angel—” Castiel swallowed nervously, and Dean thought for a moment he was going to stop talking, though he didn’t. “—when an angel feels  _ vulnerable, _ they surround themselves with things that remind them of those they are closest to, or that smell like them, or feel like them. And feathers, too. Angel feathers are powerful, so when we lose them, we tend to keep them in the place we feel safest.”

Dean’s mind was already racing along, thinking of what he could possibly do to stop Castiel from ever having to say the word “vulnerable” in that shamed, hollow tone ever again. But for then, all he could say was, “And you’ve been away from Heaven for over a decade, with—with nothing like that?”

Castiel shrugged, raising his eyes very deliberately back to the documentary, where some tiny fluffy thing was chasing another tiny fluffy thing across a desert. “In more recent years, I’ve had the bunker. It’s not the same, but…it’s as close as I thought I could get, here.”

Dean sensed that he probably wasn’t going to get any more out of Castiel that night. So, he turned his attention back to the TV and learned a thing or two about the ecosystem of the Mojave.

After an hour or so, Dean cracked his neck, deciding that a beer run to the kitchen was in order. He turned, about to ask Castiel if he wanted another—and saw Castiel slumped against the pillow pile, eyes closed.

Dean blinked in amazement. He’d read that molt was exhausting, but he’d never seen Castiel sleep, not as an angel. He wasn’t even sure he could, really. He watched for a moment, memorizing the soft, peaceful expression that smoothed out all the frowny-wrinkles that so often graced Castiel’s brow. He ignored the tiny voice in the back of his head that told him that watching was  _ creepy _ , as he’d so often told Castiel himself.

Quietly, Dean dug the remote out from the blanket and turned the TV off. As gently as he could, Dean tugged the covers up and tucked Cas in, coat and all.

It wouldn’t kill him to sleep in the chair, just this once.

Dean didn’t sleep well. He ended up giving up on resting in the hard chair that he had next to his desk, and tip-toeing down the corridor to Castiel’s room. If Cas was sleeping in his bed, it seemed only fair that Dean borrowed his, in turn—though it was sadly lacking in memory foam. Thank God that Dean was the kind of person that only needed four hours, because there wasn’t much chance of him getting any more than that while resting in Castiel’s room.

He woke up far too early, and then tossed and turned for a while longer before sitting up. It was then that he noticed that the top drawer of the nightstand was cracked open. Curiously, Dean pulled it all the way open—Castiel didn’t really own anything, as they’d covered the night before, so what was he putting in a drawer?

Feathers. The answer was feathers. Fluffy, palm-sized lesser coverts, substantially smaller even than the one Dean had found in the diner (which was now stashed in his closet with the book). They filled the drawer, handfuls of them. On the hunt, then, Dean found a couple of larger, almost leg-length primary feathers under the bed, and some secondaries and tertials stashed in the dresser.

_ Heavenly Species _ had said that the process of molting could take many weeks for an angel on Earth, something to do with the etheric plane and accessing it from here—but how long had Castiel already been putting up with it, alone? Dean knew from his reading that other angels would usually help groom the wings to speed up the process, or that they would spend the time with something called a  _ molt companion _ —the closest thing to a partner or lover that a junkless wave of light could have, from what Dean could make out—and that even just the closeness of someone else could be soothing.

But Castiel hadn’t even told anyone. 

Dean felt an irrational flare of anger that Castiel hadn’t told him that he needed help—but it fizzled out immediately, replaced by simple sadness. Castiel probably thought that Dean wouldn’t help, that he wouldn’t listen. That it’d be weird for him, that he wouldn’t understand. Which, of course, he didn’t, not really. He was trying his best, though. He wanted to help, and he’d make Castiel see that, if it was the last thing he did.

With a renewed sense of determination, Dean closed the dresser and headed off to the kitchen to make some coffee. He’d come back to the feathers later.

Once the coffee had brewed, he quickly downed a searing hot mug of it, attempting to rejuvenate himself after a rough night of not-sleeping, then topped his cup back up and poured another. 

He headed back to his own room, to see if Castiel was awake.

The angel was gone. The pillows were neatly stacked in piles in the corner and the bed was made, the covers back in place, unwrinkled.

Dean cursed quietly beneath his breath.  _ Flighty when uncertain, _ he recalled,  _ even without his damned wings working. _

The day dragged, waiting for Castiel to return from wherever the hell he’d gone. Music playing loudly and jean shorts in place, Dean had washed three of the cars in the bunker’s garage and was starting on a fourth when Sam came in, phone in hand.

“So, get this, there’s a vampire nest just outside Richmond,” Sam said without preamble. “Garth is out there already, though—they went to visit some relatives of Bess’ and he stumbled across it while he was there. So, we probably don’t both need to go, I figure.”

Dean looked up from the hood of the old burgundy Bentley he was soaping up and started squeezing out his sponge. “So, you want me to go?” he asked, despite how running off on a case being the very last thing he wanted to do while Castiel was molting like an overbrushed poodle.

“No,” Sam said, a little too quickly. “I’m saying I’ve got this, actually. I’m gonna run out right now and start driving over, spend the night there. Get started early.”

Dean frowned slightly. He reached over to the old boom box he had on a bucket beside the car, cutting the music so that they could talk, but he had barely parted his lips to respond when Sam continued to steam onward.

“I figure you and Cas can stay here, spend some more time hanging out, just relax. I’ll take a couple of days to tie this up, then I’ll be right back.”

Dean snapped his mouth shut. This was about Castiel, clearly. Had he said something to Sam? Had Dean really upset him somehow? Or did Sam just—

“Look, I saw Cas coming out of your bedroom this morning,” Sam forged on, his gaze somewhere to Dean’s left, suddenly fascinated by a vintage Thunderbird. “And I just thought that maybe a little space would help, y’know, help you get things—”

“Sam, whoa—” Dean interrupted, holding up a hand defensively but really achieving little more than waving his damp sponge. He exercised his jaw, trying to work out how to say,  _ Cas just fell asleep on my bed snuggled up in a nest of pillows because I practically threw him a slumber party _ without punching the very final hole in his man-card and throwing it away forever. “It’s not what you think, okay?”

“But it’s fine if it is, that’s all,” Sam babbled on, clearly determined. “I’m hoping it is, even, okay? Or even, like—just any progress at all on this awkward stalemate you guys have been in forever, okay? Whatever you need to do to  _ talk… _ please, God, just do it and call me when it’s safe to come back.”

Dumbfounded, Dean placed a soapy hand onto the hood of the Bentley so that he could lean on it, feeling oddly shaky. There were so many things he could say to that—so many things he  _ should _ say, assumptions he should correct. But instead, he found himself just nodding slowly, his voice sounding like someone else’s as he quietly said, “Okay. Thanks, Sam.”

Sam fled from the room like he was fleeing a crime scene, leaving Dean dripping a puddle onto the floor next to the Bentley with his sponge.

Sam thought he’d slept with Castiel.  _ Jesus Christ, as if Cas would ever— _

A throat clearing from the doorway snapped Dean out of his head, and he turned to see Castiel standing awkwardly in the entrance to the garage, his hands in his pockets.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, deciding not to mention the fact that the angel had been AWOL all day.

“Hello, Dean,” he replied, making his way across the damp floor to where Dean stood. He looked as if he was about to say something else, but he did not; his eyes flicked down and then up, just once, taking in Dean’s soaked shorts and clinging shirt.

Immediately, Dean felt defensive. So what if he looked stupid, he was washing a damn car, what was he supposed to wear?

“Did you want something, Cas?”

The angel shifted, his gaze floating across to the same (apparently fascinating) Thunderbird that Sam had studied. “I, uh, I wanted to apologize. About last night, I mean. I shouldn’t have—I mean, it probably wasn’t very appropriate of me to—"

Quickly clocking that Castiel was, for whatever reason, embarrassed to have been seen sleeping, or to have fallen asleep in Dean’s bed, or possibly both, Dean interrupted. “Dude, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. It was nice, actually,” he lied, momentarily forgetting to mention that the chair had been so uncomfortable he’d stolen Castiel’s bed, in turn. “So, what about tonight, huh?”

Castiel blinked. “Tonight?”

“Yeah,” said Dean, as casually as he could muster. “Last night, it was all fuzzy mammals in the desert, so let’s switch it up maybe… How about some ocean? I heard that dude that does the Blue Planet stuff really knows his shit.”

Head tilted so owlishly far to the left that it didn’t even look comfortable, Castiel squinted. “You…you wish to ‘hang out’ with me again?” Ahh, there they were, the old air quotes.

Dean looked down, wringing his sponge self-consciously. “Well, yeah. I mean, I had a good time,” he lied again, conveniently forgetting how dull the documentary about the fluffy carnivores had been. “You seemed like you relaxed some, right?” he asked, hopefully.

Castiel just looked very lost and uncertain, but he nodded, albeit slowly. “Yes. I did relax. It was… it was very nice of you, Dean. Very kind. But please don’t think you have to—”

“Seven, then?” Dean chirped desperately, refusing to let Castiel throw him off course.

Flapping his mouth helplessly just once, Castiel threw his hands in the air, turned on a dime and walked back toward the door.

“Is that a yes?” Dean yelled after him.

“Yes,” Castiel called back, “as you insist.”

“Damn right, I insist,” Dean muttered under his breath. “Stop being so difficult when I’m threatening you with a good time, asshole.”

“I heard that,” Castiel called.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for today, folks! More coming at you on Friday.
> 
> What do you think of Dean's efforts so far?
> 
> If you feel so inclined, you can follow me on [Tumblr here,](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/) and Liz on [Tumblr here](https://lizleeships.tumblr.com/) or [Instagram here.](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/)
> 
> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments so far. Best readers in the world, I am convinced!
> 
> \- Mal <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday, folks!
> 
> I hope you all had a good week and will have/are having a good weekend, depending on what timezone you are in. I am burying myself up to my neck in a cozy cocoon of fandom this weekend, as I should have been spending the weekend at Nashcon with friends (a mournful shout out to my Destiel Trashcan folks). But, of course, coronavirus happened. Instead, I'll write and stare at all the gorgeous EW pictures we were gifted with this week.
> 
> Speaking of gorgeous pictures...that's right, there's one down there. Liz has been at it again! If you want to go and give her some love[ over on her lizleeships tumblr,](https://lizleeships.tumblr.com/) I'm sure she'd appreciate it.
> 
> Onward, to fluff and feathers!
> 
> \- Mal

Dean’s palms were sweating. He didn’t know what he was doing; he was officially out of his depth. All he’d wanted to do was to help Cas feel a bit better—to not be a dick, for once, given how much of one he’d been at various points through the past decade. But he wasn’t sure if he was doing any of this angel stuff right; he just didn’t _know._ Deep inside, though, he knew that it was more than that. Somehow this felt like a really big, _important_ thing that he needed to not fuck up, and here he was going into it half-cocked, with—

“Dean?” Castiel rapped on the door. “It’s exactly seven o’clock.”

With one final look around the bedroom he’d spent nearly an hour setting up, Dean took a deep breath. “Yeah, come on in, Cas.”

Castiel opened the door, not looking up at first. He closed it behind himself, and it was only when he turned back into the room that he lifted his head. He froze in place instantly, his lips slightly parted, one hand still clenched on the doorknob, his knuckles white.

Dean waited.

Slowly, painfully slowly to Dean’s eyes, Castiel let go of the handle, his hand drifting gradually down to his side as he took in every inch of the room. Dean could see his gaze moving methodically over everything, taking it all in, his expression entirely unreadable.

Dean had set the pillow-nest back up, of course. That was a given. It had been a hit last night, so he wasn’t going to lose the ground he’d already gained. This time, though, he’d gone further, placing clean blankets around the ‘U’ shape so that they draped across the pillows, covering the gaps. He’d decided to make nachos this time, because even though Castiel was eating, Dean had noticed that he had a tendency to just pick at the food, as if he was eating in spite of himself. So Dean’d reasoned that finger foods might be the way to go. He’d also upgraded from last night’s beer to a fresh bottle of Johnnie Walker Black—that addition might have been more about his own nerves than about Castiel’s. 

The most important parts of the setup, though, were the parts Cas spent the longest looking at: the feathers. 

First, the one that Dean had found in the diner, placed carefully in the center of the bed to catch Castiel’s attention. Then the smaller, fluffier ones from the nightstand in Castiel’s own room, placed around here and there, in the dips between the pillows and even on the surrounding furniture. 

The final gamble, the one Dean was most nervous about, had been Dean’s own things. A few of his most-worn undershirts, a blanket from the back seat of the Impala, his jacket. Just placed casually around the terribly makeshift (and now that Dean was looking at it with an angel beside him, rather sad) attempt at a nest.

“Dean,” Castiel said very quietly. “Where did you get these feathers?”

“I, uh—” Dean scratched at the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I found the first one in the diner, when we went to Hastings the other day.”

“And the others?”

“They were in your room. I probably shouldn’t have taken them without asking, so…I’m sorry about that. I just thought that…” Dean trailed off, his eyes dropping down. “I’m sorry.”

Castiel didn’t answer, stepping slowly up to the bed. He reached out, his hand gliding past the longer covert feather from the diner and picking up the carefully folded t-shirt that Dean had set next to it, atop the sheet. “This is your favorite shirt,” Castiel said, frowning.

“Yeah. Sure is,” Dean quipped. “Madison Square Garden, ’73. Best that Zepp ever was.”

Castiel held it in both hands, turning to look at Dean. His eyes were tumultuous, dark blue, hard to read. Dean swallowed hard. 

“Why is it here?” Cas asked.

“I thought that you could wear it, if you like.”

Castiel’s head shifted only fractionally, but Dean didn’t need to see the head-tilt to be able to sense it.

“It’s the softest one I own,” Dean confessed quietly. “It’s been worn-in pretty well, so I just figured it…it might feel nice. And, well…”

Castiel didn’t speak up and rescue him, so Dean had to get the rest of the words out before the silence became too awkward.

“It probably, like, feels like me. Smells like me. I mean, it’s clean and all. But…I still wondered if it might help some.”

“Dean, I can’t wear this right now,” Castiel said, looking down at a spot near Dean’s feet. “I, uh—my wings, you see, they—I’ll get it dirty.”

Dean huffed out a small laugh. “Dude, that’s kinda the point. It can’t be comfy to have oil sticking a stiff dress shirt to your back. I’m not stupid—I washed it out before, so I’ve seen it. You can take the dumb coat off and just relax. If you don’t wanna talk about it, fine, but at least be comfortable.”

Castiel was blinking hard, and for one awful moment Dean thought he was going to start crying—fuck knows what he’d have done if that happened—but instead, Cas nodded, sharp and jerky. He placed the shirt back down on the bed almost reverently, before beginning to shrug the trench coat from his shoulders.

He didn’t look up, he didn’t speak, and there was still an air of shame and awkwardness about it that Dean detested. This wasn’t right—this wasn’t what he’d been aiming for.

“Hey,” he said, stepping forward. He reached out, resting a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, ducking down to find Castiel’s eyes. “Talk to me, Cas. Tell me what I’m doing wrong, here.”

Castiel’s eyes searched Dean’s face, and he let out a slow sigh. “You aren’t, Dean. You are doing everything right, so far. Or as well as a human could. You just—you don’t know what you’re doing, you _can’t_ know, and I…” Trailing off, Castiel shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I know what I’m doing, Cas, okay?” Dean said, as softly as he could, giving the angel’s shoulder a little squeeze. He couldn’t quite bring himself to look Castiel in the eye as he talked, but looking at his own fingers resting on Castiel’s shoulder was almost, kinda, maybe the same thing. Close enough.

Castiel just sat still, as if Dean’s words had pressed a pause button. He looked at Dean’s hand, too; Dean didn’t move it.

“Alright,” Dean started again, quieter. Nervous, but sure. “I’m probably making a mess of it and missing a ton of things, but I’m doing the best I can. I read up on all of it—the whole molting thing, how it doesn’t really happen on Earth much, how you have to feel safe and stuff, about the nests and the molting companions and keeping the feathers… What I don’t understand is why you’re trying to hide it. Especially from me.” Dean paused, moistening his lips. Hell, he’d already said so much, what was the point in stopping now? “I know I’ve messed up a lot, Cas, not listened to you, not stood by you when I should. I can’t fix any of that. But, God, I—I didn’t realize that things were so bad that you’d—you’d never felt safe, and you didn’t trust me to even know—”

Suddenly, Dean thought _he_ might be the one who was going to cry, and he let go of Castiel’s shoulder with an embarrassed huff.

“You know what—forget it. This was dumb. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupted, catching Dean’s wrist as it slid from his shoulder and holding on. “Stop. This is my fault. I should have explained. I thought last night that you might know, but you just said you’d heard about certain angel habits somewhere and I allowed myself to believe that it was a coincidence. That was a mistake, I should have told you then.”

Dean shrugged, looking down at Castiel’s tanned fingers still clutching at his freckled wrist. “No, you didn’t have to tell me, Cas. I shouldn’t have just butted in. I’m not an angel, I get that.”

Dean could feel Castiel’s frown like a weight. “Why should that matter?”

“It’s an angel thing, right? That’s part of why you never said anything?” Dean ventured. “You thought I wouldn’t get it.”

Castiel slowly released Dean’s wrist until both of his arms hung limply by his sides. He answered, looking down at the floor. “I did think that you wouldn’t understand, and wouldn’t care. I misjudged you and I’m sorry, but it doesn’t matter that you aren’t an angel, Dean. There’s no rule that says that humans can’t know about angel things, and even if there was, I would ignore it.”

Moving both hands then, Dean gripped Castiel’s shoulders lightly. “So, I can help?”

Castiel nodded.

“I wasn’t doing it wrong? At least not terribly?”

Castiel shook his head once, then again, his eyes squeezing shut tight. “No, Dean. There aren’t rules, not like you’re thinking. You can’t really do any of it wrong, it’s only the intent that matters.”

“So, if I intended just to help you, to try and make you feel more comfortable, that’s okay?”

Another nod, smaller.

Taking a deep breath, Dean slid his hands around to the front of Castiel’s trench coat and began to push it from his shoulders. “Then come on, Cas. Let’s get you out of this heavy thing and into your lumpy, clumsy, human-attempt of a nest.”

For the first time in Dean’s recent memory, Castiel smiled, soft and small. He nodded, shrugging his shoulders to help Dean with the coat. He began to undo the buttons of his dress shirt as Dean folded the coat onto the back of his desk chair. Turning toward the bed, Castiel looked over Dean’s attempts once more. 

“The nest is beautiful, actually. To me at least. Last night, resting here with you—” A small blush was building behind Castiel’s ears, though Dean chose to simply treasure it rather than mention it. “—that was the best, and safest, and most accepted that I have felt in a very long time.”

Dean shrugged awkwardly, moving back over to the bed. “Yeah, well, I—I told you yesterday, dude. You’re important to me, okay? So, if I can help you, then I will. In whatever way you’ll let me.”

Castiel’s eyes were huge as they rested on Dean, an unspoken question very evident on his parted lips, though he kept it to himself. Instead he turned, walking toward the chair where Dean had deposited his trench coat and shucking the suit jacket and white dress shirt from his arms to leave them there with his outer layer.

Dean could see, then, for the first time, the clear, thick oil that soaked the back of the shirt and Castiel’s skin beneath. His back—tan, firm, and wonderfully muscled in a way that Dean tried and entirely failed not to notice—was glossy and slick with the shiny, musky-smelling oil.

“I don’t know why you were hiding the oil, man,” Dean said, his brain apparently entirely disengaged by the sight of the muscled planes on either side of Castiel’s spine. “Honestly, it smells pretty great. It’s not like it’s gross or offensive. I don’t know why you’re so embarrassed about it.”

Castiel turned, raising an eyebrow. “When your body went through times of change, were you not somewhat disconcerted by your uncontrollable body fluids?”

Dean felt his cheeks heat. “Well, I mean…when you put it like that,” he said awkwardly, moving up the side of the bed to sit down on the mattress within the nest.

Castiel gave him a tiny smile. He moved back to the foot of the bed, taking Dean’s Led Zeppelin tour shirt in hand. He looked down at it for a moment, worrying his gently flushed lip between his teeth. “You really think it smells nice?”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh. Awkward, shy angels, he decided, were fucking adorable. Though knowing how hard the dude could punch, he probably wouldn’t say that to his face. “Yeah, Cas. I mean, it’s not fancy cologne or anything, but it smells pretty good to me. Just…warm, and musky, and homey. I like it.”

Castiel smiled a little more, still looking down at the shirt, so Dean decided to push his luck a bit further.

“And the feathers… Dude. I know I’m only seeing the old, damaged ones, but man, those things are impressive. The size alone, and then the color—that shimmery thing you’ve got going on? Very cool.”

“You like them?” Castiel questioned, sounding oddly hopeful as he looked up and finally met Dean’s eyes again.

“Cas,” Dean said, softening his voice. He shuffled forward on his knees, waving his hands to indicate that Castiel should sit down on the edge of the mattress and pass him the shirt. “I’m no expert in angel-anything, let alone wings, but I know that yours are awesome, even after the fall.”

Still strangely cautious, Castiel lowered himself to the edge of the mattress, relinquishing the shirt to Dean. He was fully blushing by then; something Dean had only really seen at the hands of perky waitresses or occasionally Rowena, once Castiel had been on Earth long enough to start catching some of the flirty comments for what they were. 

Was that what Dean was doing? Well, yeah, he guessed he was—in a strange, angel-y way. Usually he would never have had the balls to flirt openly with Castiel, simply because he wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from being bluntly rejected, but it seemed to be helping, so who was Dean to ruin a good thing?

Dean shuffled up closer to Cas, his knees near the angel’s thigh. “They’re beautiful, Cas,” he said honestly.

Castiel’s eyes met his. The sheer bewilderment in them didn’t manage to entirely cover his smile and the pleased way his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Thank you, Dean,” he said awkwardly, “but they’re very damaged, you know. Flawed. Even the individual feathers are…scarred, for the most part.”

With a shrug, Dean finally gave his eyes permission to dance downward, taking in Castiel’s broad, tanned chest and the smattering of soft, dark hair that covered it before moving back up to his face. “You know, Lucifer told us once that’s what got him kicked out of Heaven. He refused to bow down to humans because they were flawed, imperfect.”

Castiel’s eyebrows gave a tiny raise, but he nodded. “That’s true. God had Michael cast him into Hell for that.”

“So, you’re saying I can’t appreciate your wings or think that they’re beautiful, just because they’re flawed?”

The flush at Castiel’s cheeks only deepened, and Dean found himself feeling rather smug. He looked down at the t-shirt in his hands and then took a deep breath. He’d come too far, already, not to offer this.

“Hey, before you put the shirt on and we fire up the David Attenborough, could I try something?”

Castiel tilted his head in question.

“Can I touch you?” Dean asked, raising a hand toward Castiel’s shoulder to show what he meant.

The angel’s shoulders stiffened, but after studying Dean’s face for another beat, he nodded. “If you want to.”

Reaching out further, Dean settled his right hand on Castiel’s right shoulder; familiar territory for them. The shoulder was always a safe zone for cautiously friend-level pats— _bro-pats_ —or even the odd _lingering touch_ , when Dean could get away with it. Slowly, Castiel’s shoulders started to relax as Dean’s hand merely rested there, light and warm, their skin heating between them.

Dean shuffled around, then, so that he was kneeling behind Castiel. He used his left hand on Castiel’s other shoulder to urge him to turn, so that he was sitting fully on the end of the bed, his back to Dean, with Dean kneeled directly behind him. Slowly, using just the barest tips of three fingers, Dean swept his hand down across Castiel’s shoulder blades. Castiel let out a tiny gasp at the contact, his back juddering beneath Dean’s fingers. But he didn’t ask Dean to stop, or lean away, so Dean carried on, bringing his other hand down until he was stroking lightly across the skin with all of his fingers.

Disc by disc, Castiel’s spine slowly curved and relaxed, and after another minute Dean felt Castiel push back against Dean’s hands, silently asking for more.

“This is okay?” Dean asked softly, shifting his lightly trailing touches to slightly firmer ones, still gentle but definitely stroking by then, rubbing delicately at the warm, oily patch of skin.

Castiel didn’t speak. Instead, his head lolled forward and he nodded against his chest. It was a small motion, but enough to loosen something in Dean's chest.

Minutes passed. It seemed like a much longer stretch of time, to Dean, but the old clock that had been in the room when he inherited it (which, like many objects around this strange abode, seemed to never require batteries) ticked onward only a couple of minutes in Dean’s periphery. 

The oil, Dean realized, was incredibly light despite its thickness. It didn’t feel unpleasant on the skin or cling; instead, he got the impression that if he rubbed it over his arms it would just absorb like baby oil. The smell was stronger from close up: earthy but gentle. There was a pleasantly clean, fresh-air quality to it that Dean found he enjoyed.

Dean shifted so that he had one knee on each side of Castiel’s hips, getting closer so that he could control his touches, softly massaging at the angel’s shoulders and spine. “I read that molting is pretty uncomfortable,” he said quietly. “Itchy and achy and all that. And stuck down here, in a vessel, it must be particularly rough.”

Castiel let out what Dean thought—hoped—might have been a soft sigh as Dean worked on a knot in his back. “Where did you really learn all this, Dean?” he asked, his voice muffled by the angle.

Even though Castiel couldn’t see, Dean gave the back of his head a sheepish little grin. “I should apologize for that, too. I tracked down what you were looking at in the library yesterday morning, the book you dropped on the floor.”

“Oh,” Castiel said quietly, the tiniest bit of tension returning to his spine.

Dean widened the arcs of his hands, soothing it back out again. “I’m sorry, Cas. I shouldn’t have been snooping around. You were just—I was wondering what was up with you. I was worried. When I worked it out, I just wanted to learn how to help.”

A slow nod. “Your intentions were pure. I understand.”

“I don’t understand why you were reading it, though,” Dean said. “I mean, you’re an angel. You probably know all that stuff already, right?”

“In theory,” Castiel responded, bringing his head up and turning it slightly to direct his voice back over his shoulder. In response to his movement, Dean moved his hands lower down the angel’s spine to the middle of his back, digging in his thumbs gently. “I’ve never molted on Earth before, or known anyone who has. I knew it was possible, but I was hoping to find some advice to make it easier.”

“Did you find anything?” Dean asked, shuffling closer and rearranging his legs so that he could drop his feet over the edge of the mattress, Castiel sat between his thighs.

The stiffening of Castiel’s spine, the resetting of his shoulders, was much more noticeable that time.

“Hey,” Dean said quietly, slowing his hands and drifting them back up to his shoulder blades, trailing and stroking through the silky oil. “Can you try and meet me in the middle here, buddy? I’m trying to help but you’re not sharing.”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel dropped his chin to his chest again, his shoulders slumping.

_In for a penny, in for a pound._

Dean reached forward and around, hooking his chin over Castiel’s shoulder as he gave the angel a careful hug from behind. They’d hugged plenty of times, that wasn’t new, but usually Castiel was wearing _clothes_ , and Dean was suddenly very aware of all the solid muscle sitting between his legs and pressed up against his chest. Castiel didn’t seem to mind, though; he let out another small, quiet sigh and softened, leaning back slightly into Dean.

“You’re good at that,” Castiel said, still not answering Dean’s question, but at least talking. “The massaging. It felt very nice. My back has been sore, and the itch carries through even into my human vessel.”

Dean gave a self-depreciating grin at that. “Yeah, well. Given plenty of massages in my time. Most of the women I’ve been with loved a good massage. Some of the men, too.”

Castiel turned more fully, pulling back from Dean to look at him oddly.

“What?” Dean said, suddenly self-conscious under the angel’s gaze.

“I just—I never knew that about you.” Castiel said, frowning. “That you had relationships with men, I mean.”

 _Oh._ Dean looked away, letting go of Castiel and pulling his feet back up onto the bed as he moved to the side of the mattress, ostensibly searching for the TV remote. “‘Relationship’ is really kind of a strong word for what I’ve had with anyone for most of my life, Cas. And, well, I mean…you never asked. It’s not something I advertise, particularly. Just not anyone’s business.”

Castiel was frowning down at his lap by the time Dean located the TV remote and was settling onto the bed. “We don’t communicate terribly well, you and I,” Castiel lamented.

He sounded sad, almost hurt, and Dean paused. He leaned forward, reaching down to the end of the bed to touch Castiel’s shoulder once again. “Well, we’re trying, right? That’s what we’re doing right now.”

Castiel looked back over his shoulder, giving Dean a small, tense smile and a little nod.

“Why don’t you come up here?” Dean suggested, patting the mattress next to him. “We can watch the documentary for a while and eat before the food is completely cold.”

After a moment’s shuffling, Castiel had a shirt on once more—Dean’s Led Zeppelin shirt, he noted happily—and he was sitting in the pillow nest with Dean, picking at his plate of nachos and complimenting Dean on them kindly, though they both knew that they probably just tasted of molecules to him.

Even if his intention had simply been to help Castiel relax and feel better, Dean had to admit, selfishly, that getting to spend time with Cas like this was pretty nice for him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They used WORDS, folks!
> 
> Well, some words. There are definitely *more* words that they need to use...and a few other things they need to do, too. But they are so, so close.
> 
> More coming in just a few days, as always. 
> 
> The response to this fic and the art has been so lovely. Thank you, all of you.
> 
> \- Mal <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, folks!
> 
> Posting this fic is the best part of my Tuesday. (Seriously, my Tuesday kinda sucked until "real life" was over and I got to sink into fandom. I hope everyone else's day was better!)
> 
> The response to this fic has made my heart grow several sizes, but I thought it actually might burst when I just looked at this chapter all ready to go with Liz's amazing art in place. I hope you love it as much as I do!
> 
> I know you were all waiting for their baby-step communication to go further, and I promised no torture or angst in this fic, so... here you go, readers!
> 
> \- Mal <3

They’d been watching the first migration of a mesmerizingly cute baby whale for about twenty minutes when Dean caught Castiel’s shoulders moving again from the corner of his eye, distracting him from David Attenborough’s comforting tones. Just a little twitch, a subtle roll. Discomfort.

“Hey,” Dean said, rolling over onto his side and tapping Castiel’s shoulder, gently pushing Castiel down to lay on the bed with his back to Dean. “Why don’t you lay down like this, on your side. I can rub your shoulder blades a bit more, if you want.”

Castiel seemed hesitant, but he complied, stretching out on his side next to Dean. “They—they’re getting more sensitive as time goes on, that’s all. As the new feathers start to grow,” he explained quietly. “It feels… Mostly it’s itchy and sore, but when you touch them it… it’s nice,” he finished clumsily.

“It’s fine, Cas,” Dean replied, shifting so that his head was propped up on his hand and he could still see the TV over Castiel’s shoulder. His other hand, he pressed between Castiel’s shoulder blades, rubbing slow circles through the dark gray fabric of his t-shirt, which was already feeling a little damp from oil.

Slowly, Castiel settled once more, almost melting down into the mattress, his eyes trained half-heartedly on the continuing documentary as sea birds and whales flew and swam their way across the screen.

Dean couldn’t help but smile fondly down at Castiel. Even before he was molting, Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the angel looking quite so relaxed; shoes off, in a soft t-shirt, lounging on Dean’s bed getting a back rub in his makeshift nest. It was soft and oddly domestic, and far more intimate than they’d ever been.

Not that Dean was complaining. Instead, he was cataloging every moment, committing the precious minutes to memory so that when it inevitably ended, he could remember what it might be like to be able to be this close to the angel he cared about so much on a normal, standard day. The angel he’d loved for years, though he was human and worthless and unsuitable.

As the whales on the TV dove down deeper, Dean adjusted his weight on the mattress and moved his hand down, sliding it under Castiel’s t-shirt to get his hands back onto bare skin, where they could massage more firmly. Castiel gave out another sigh, quiet and content, and his head dipped forward slightly into the pillow. Encouraged, Dean shuffled closer, working his fingers over the muscles of Castiel’s back.

“This okay?” Dean asked carefully, wanting to be sure. They were so close, stretched out together in their odd little nest, that the urge to dip his head down and press a kiss to Castiel’s neck was almost overwhelming.

But of course he didn’t; this was about making his best friend relax and feel better, not about freaking him out with unwanted feelings.

The fabric of the pillow made a quiet _shush_ -ing sound as Castiel nodded against it. “It’s wonderful. It helps,” he clarified.

“Is this the kind of thing that molting companions do?” Dean asked, splaying out his fingers and rubbing at the skin across the plate of Castiel’s shoulder blades.

Castiel went stock still, the small rise and dip of his lungs under Dean’s hand catching for a moment. “Yes, I suppose,” he said cautiously after a long pause. “Just…being close. Comfort and companionship, that’s part of it.”

“Only part of it?” Dean asked, switching his movements to smooth strokes, as if he could soothe away whatever tension had suddenly rolled through Castiel’s body. He craned his neck up a little, trying to take in Castiel’s expressions as he spoke. “Am I doing something wrong? Is there anything else I can do?” he asked, concerned.

“No, no,” Castiel shook his head, ignoring the documentary entirely as he focused on the blanket close to his face. “Nothing that you can do. When angels molt, if they have a companion to help them through it, it’s…different. We don’t work the same way humans do, but a molt companion is… It’s a bond, a choice. Someone that stays close and supports the angel when needed, and then we do the same, in turn. They stay physically close, help groom the feathers, make sure that, uh, that the angel feels safe and cared for.”

Dean’s hand stopped moving, resting only very lightly on the oily skin, the damp underside of the Led Zeppelin shirt clinging to Dean’s knuckles and wrist. “And I—you don’t want me to do that for you,” Dean clarified, a sudden pang of puzzling hurt hitting him that he couldn’t quite pin down.

Castiel rolled onto his back, frowning up at Dean with his wrinkly brow and crinkly eye corners. Dean’s hand was temporarily pinned beneath the angel’s back, but Castiel didn’t seem to care. “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying,” he rumbled quietly, studying Dean’s face for a moment before his eyes dropped down to Dean’s chest, resting on his plain undershirt. “The things you’re doing—It’s a closer kind of bond than you would want with me, Dean. How a human feels with a partner, a lover, that’s how an angel feels with their molt companion near.”

“Oh,” Dean mumbled, flushing. “Right. And I’m a guy, so—”

“Dean,” Castiel butted in with a frown. “You know that gender is irrelevant to me. It’s not that.”

“Then—” Dean couldn’t help but feel wounded, though he had no right to. Awkwardly, he started trying to tug his arm out from under Castiel’s weight. “—it’s just…me. You don’t want me to do that.”

“Dean,” Castiel said again, his gravelly voice edged with frustration. “I never thought, for even a moment, that you would want to be that for me. Not just because my vessel is male, but simply that you never gave any indication that—that—” Castiel faltered, his frustration falling into uncertainty.

For a moment there was silence, heavy and strange. It held, and Dean’s arm was trapped awkwardly beneath Castiel’s spine as they both lay, frozen, not looking at the other.

“But if…” Dean swallowed harshly after a minute, his eyes pinned desperately to Castiel’s sternum, tracing the lines of the Led Zeppelin logo. He wasn’t sure what was happening, how they’d been at cross-purposes for so long, but he felt something rising up inside that he was desperately trying—but failing—to stamp down. “…say that I did want to help? To be that, for you…”

Hope; that was the fragile thing that was growing in Dean’s ribcage. Soft, and new, and growing, just as the tiny feathers renewing Castiel’s wings must be. A tiny flash of it, perhaps, but even that… Hope was something Dean had never even dreamed of having.

Dean heard Castiel’s breath catch, but he couldn’t look up.

Neither of them spoke. On the TV screen, the whales had long ago reached their destination, and calves blew waterspouts and frolicked at the surface. Slowly, pressed down into the mattress, Dean began to shift his fingers back and forth; he didn’t have a lot of space with Castiel laying as he was, but nonetheless, he was gently stroking the angel’s hot, slick skin once more.

As the movement grew, Castiel shifted, rolling back onto his side. Dean froze, fingers lifting away from the skin, ready for a rejection, but he didn’t get one.

“Don’t stop. Please,” Castiel whispered into the pillow that was squashed against his cheek. In a smooth, hasty motion, he reached back to grip the oily t-shirt behind his neck and pulled it off, tossing it to the side. The soft fabric made an unintended, hasty addition to his—their?—nest, a thought which gave Dean a strange sense of satisfaction somewhere down deep. Castiel leaned back—into Dean’s fingers, into his body—pushing lightly and apprehensively back against him.

With his heart filling so much of his mouth he wasn’t sure he could speak, Dean shifted around on the mattress. He lifted his free arm, letting his head move forward over Castiel’s shoulder. He switched the hand he was stroking with, and brought the spare one over top of them, reaching cautiously around to Castiel’s front. He rested his forearm across Castiel’s stomach, pulling him in. Spooning, effectively, with Dean’s lower arm between them, stroking rhythmically across Castiel’s shoulder blades. His face rested in the crook of Castiel’s neck, and for a minute or two, they both pretended to watch the TV.

Dean’s heart was thundering in his chest. He wondered if Castiel could feel it, could hear all the things Dean hadn’t said—had never thought he could say—in it’s erratic thumping. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Castiel said after another minute, so quietly that it would have been easy to miss if Dean hadn’t been straining to listen to every breath that the angel took.

“I want to,” Dean said simply. “Do you want me to?”

Twisting his head just a fraction upward, so that he could look back at Dean from the side of his eye, Castiel gave a tiny nod.

“You’re right,” Dean admitted. “We really haven’t communicated well. Especially the last few years, but not ever. And I’m sorry for my part in that. I’ve messed up a lot, Cas. Not just in life but…with you.”

Castiel was quiet again for a moment as his arm shifted, sliding out from under Dean’s to wrap over it, entwining their fingers across his stomach. When he spoke, he turned his head sideways to look back up at Dean again. “Can we fix it?”

Dean’s fingers moved more confidently across Castiel’s skin, soothing and gently running his nails through the gathering oil, massaging with the tips of his fingers. “Pretty sure we can, Cas,” he said, smiling against Castiel’s warm, tan neck. 

Even not being able to see, Dean could feel Castiel’s smile against his temple. Dean breathed out, his mind whirling desperately. He felt like he was so close to getting everything he’d ever wanted—but he still didn’t know, wasn’t sure. Perhaps this, just this, a stand-in for a molt companion and little more, was all that Castiel was inferring he wanted.

Dean wasn’t sure he could do that.

It was too much. To be so close to what he desired and not have it returned…Dean was a dumbass, perhaps, but even he didn’t hate himself that much.

Not sure if he was being brave or just being reckless, Dean took in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of feathers and oil and warmth and _Cas._ It made him bolder.

“Hey,” Dean whispered down into Castiel’s neck, allowing his lips to drag just the smallest amount across his skin. “Turn over?” he asked, wanting to see Castiel’s face, read his eyes, know what he was thinking. Taking a smaller breath and holding it, Dean pressed his lips to the warm, precious spot where Castiel’s neck met his shoulder, depositing a tiny, nervous kiss.

Castiel flipped so quickly that their heads almost bumped, turning over, wide-eyed, until they were lying chest-to-chest on the bed. The position opened up Castiel’s back and allowed Dean to get both hands up behind him, digging his fingers more firmly into the suddenly tight muscles he’d been idly stroking. The angel gave out a choked sigh at the sensation, his head lolling forward until his forehead touched Deans. Eyes closed, he let out a low moan. “Oh, that feels so much better,” he confessed, his spine seeming to melt into Dean’s embrace.

“Yeah?” Dean said uncertainly, massaging his way across Castiel’s shoulders, his chest pulled close.

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed, his forehead rocking against Dean’s as he nodded. After a beat, his tongue darted out to moisten his lips and he quietly added, “Dean? Could we perhaps try some of that improved communication, now? You know I’m not the best at understanding the subtleties of human intention and I…I really don’t want to misunderstand.”

Panic gripped Dean’s formerly hopeful chest, turning his ribs into a true cage for his heart. But he took a big breath, expanded his lungs, and broke through the bars. “Yeah. Let’s try that, Cas. I’ve got one quick question first, though.”

Castiel’s blue gaze came to rest on Dean’s face, his eyes wrinkling gently in enquiry.

“Can I kiss you, Cas? Is _that_ something that you want me to do?”

A few more years of experience on Earth, thank goodness, meant that the wide-eyed, terrified look that graced Castiel’s face, familiar to Dean from a brothel long ago, only lasted for an instant. Then it was gone, and Castiel’s eyes fluttered closed again as he leaned in, closing the gap; answering the question.

Castiel kissed Dean like he was precious and breakable, and given all the times they’d hurt each other, that might be true.

Dean could barely bring himself to react; Castiel’s lips were dry and textured, but pillowy and huge and soft, and every movement of them against his own felt like he was falling into a dream of something too miraculous to be real. But when he pulled back, and their eyes opened, Castiel was still there.

Flushed, Castiel offered a little nod. “Like that?” he asked.

“And like this,” Dean said, nodding before he leaned back in, pressing their mouths together again. He was more active then, their kiss slow, and heavy, and passionate, before trailing to soft parting pecks as neither wanted to stop, merely forced to take breaths.

Foreheads resting together again, they shared breaths as they adjusted. Dean’s fingers couldn’t help but return to their endless stroking, as much for Dean’s pleasure as Castiel’s comfort.

“Still want to communicate, Cas?” Dean asked, a little breathless.

Eyes so blue that they drowned any other thoughts came to rest solidly on Dean’s own. “What do you want from me, Dean?” he asked gently. “For once—for perhaps the first time in our entire acquaintance—I’d like us to be on exactly the same page.”

It was easier to talk about, Dean found, with the taste of Castiel still on his lips. “Well, I’d like more kissing from you, to start with,” he said, grinning softly. “And more, if you want that. I want you, Cas. I always have.”

“Not just…” Castiel rolled his shoulders under Dean’s hands, a wordless clarification.

“Not just,” Dean agreed. “If that’s…y’know. Something you’ve ever thought about.”

Castiel’s sudden smile was gummy and wide, and the small laugh that burst out from him was unexpected, to Dean, but beautiful. Like something had finally released inside of him and let out a thought that he'd long held on the tip of his tongue, Castiel's words came out clearly, deep and strong and sure. “Dean…I love you,” he said, as simple as that. “I’ve loved you for years. You feel like home...like a molt companion always should.”

Something hitched in Dean’s throat at the beautiful sound of the words, and he blinked harshly, determined not to descend so far into chick-flick-dom that he’d cry. Though, he realized, they were already pretty far in. “How long?” he whispered, helpless but to ask.

“I don’t know, not exactly,” Castiel confessed. “By the time I fell and realized what the feeling was, it was already there. But I always suspected that our bond truly became love, for me, when I decided to help you with Zachariah, in the green room. I don’t know why I would have done that, betrayed my own kind, otherwise.”

Dean could feel a goofy grin stretching across his face, and he buried it momentarily in Castiel’s neck, leaving kisses there just because he could. “Purgatory,” he whispered. “I mean, I fell for you long before that, but I realized in Purgatory. That my life would never be the same without you in it. Never been able to move on, since.”

“So…” Castiel whispered into the tiny space between them, and the _hope_ in his voice made Dean’s ribs ache.

“Yeah,” Dean answered immediately, just as soft as the situation demanded. “I love you, too.”

Dean wasn’t great at communicating feelings or talking about emotions, but those particular words were ones he’d held in his mouth for years, choking around them every time he and Castiel miscommunicated because he was so focused on what he was _not_ saying. So, they came out with surprising ease, and Dean made sure to memorize the feel of them falling from his tongue so that he’d never avoid saying them in future.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

Small words, but with so much meaning that they formed a whole conversation, full of explanation and apology and promise, all by themselves.

To see the way a single verb and two tiny pronouns lit Castiel up was astounding. _I love you._ That tiny string of syllables was enough. The angel’s whole face relaxed and melted softly into such a warm, delighted smile, his eyes sparkling, and his lips parted in a soft laugh of almost—but not quite—disbelief. He looked, well, he looked…

“You’re beautiful,” Dean breathed out, unable to help himself. Somewhere, a door had been unlocked, and Dean would rather be damned than lock it again and shut his words away. “I don’t know what it is, but you’ve never looked the slightest bit like Jimmy Novak to me. Something in your eyes. You’re just…you.”

“I’m glad that my vessel is pleasing to you,” Castiel murmured. “I’m sure that’s…helpful.”

Dean couldn’t help a little huffing laugh. “Yeah. It’s very far from the most important thing, but as I can’t see what you look like without it…it helps.”

“I’m sorry you can’t see my true form,” Castiel said, one hand sliding up to trail a finger down the side of Dean’s face, cautious, testing new waters. “Other than my wings, I suppose.”

Even though Dean could feel the remnants of a pink warmth at his cheeks that was the horrid result of using _words_ , he had no hesitation left as Castiel’s fingers caressed his chin, their faces together, nose to nose, forehead to forehead.

Greedily tilting his head into Castiel’s hand, hoarding every new touch now that he could, Dean reached across the bed to settle his arms more firmly around Castiel, in a true embrace, before grinning and asking, “Your wings? You know I can’t see those, right? Just the feathers when they drop out.”

Castiel’s forehead creased, but only for a moment. “Of course you can see them, Dean,” he said, like he was explaining something obvious. “I just keep them tucked out of sight, so they don’t get in the way. In a human vessel, they can be rather cumbersome.”

Dean blinked slowly, his worldview adjusting yet again, as it had countless times in the last couple of days. “So, all this time,” he said, “if I’d wanted to see them, just been curious, all I had to do…”

“Was ask, yes,” Castiel said, chuckling, his chest reverberating against Dean’s. “Communication. I think we’re getting better.”

Dean’s laugh fell into another kiss before he even made the conscious decision to press his lips back to Castiel’s. It just happened, it felt so right, and easy. Like breathing. Except breathing didn’t make his fingertips tingle and his toes curl in his socks.

Time stretched out compassionately to allow them a chance to catch up on the years they’d missed. They lay on Dean’s sheets, in Castiel’s nest—their nest, now, kind of, Dean supposed—just kissing, learning and memorizing. Castiel had been hesitant at first, but once he’d been reassured this was what Dean wanted, he was all in. Castiel kissed like the force of nature he’d always been, his hands earthquakes, his breath a hurricane, his lips a tornado. And Dean was just a tumbleweed, helplessly caught up and blown far, far from Kansas.

There was passion, and longing, and simple joy in their kisses, and Dean sunk into it all happily. They were measured, though; nothing felt rushed, or desperate…they had all the time in the world, now, to communicate, both with words and without.

“Roll over, Cas,” Dean whispered in a lull, his voice raspy from making out. “Let me try massaging your wings again, and this time—” He leaned in again, pressing his hot mouth to Castiel’s throat briefly, feeling him swallow beneath his lips. “—I won’t have to hold back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh!
> 
> Does that count as a cliffhanger? I hope not, because I think you all know what's going to be coming up next...this is a wing fic, after all ;)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Isn't the art gorgeous? Please do [go show lizleeships](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/) some love!
> 
> \- Mal <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday, fandom!
> 
> I know you're all waiting after the little cliff hanger on the last chapter, such as it was, so I won't keep you here long--just long enough to confirm that we're entering NSFW territory this chapter (I know, I know... _none_ of you saw that coming, right?) ;)
> 
> Also, Liz has art for you again!
> 
> And not just one piece, oh no.
> 
> Not even two.
> 
> No, that Liz-shaped whirlwind of talent gave y'all THREE. 
> 
> Yup. Go on, head on down there and get reading and drooling over the art, you know you want to ;)
> 
> \- Mal <3

Castiel flipped over on the bed so fast that the old wooden frame squeaked, and Dean had to stifle a laugh. Adorable. When he wanted to be, Castiel—badass, “I’m an Angel of the Lord,” commander of the Garrison, unfathomable Seraph Castiel—was completely fucking adorable. And Dean was allowed to think that now. Though...maybe not out loud, too often. 

David Attenborough had given up on educating them, leaving Dean still ignorant about exactly what those baby whales had been doing. Though he was curious… Perhaps they could watch that one again, next time.

_ Next time. _

Dean glowed from the inside as he shifted on the bed to make room for Castiel. Patting the mattress to indicate that the angel should move into the center, he watched as Cas re-settled, his rippling, oily back muscles going still once more as he stretched out on his front, arms under Dean’s pillow. 

Dean took a deep breath. Okay, he could do this. He  _ wanted _ to do this. Carefully, Dean knee-walked across the mattress until he was next to Castiel’s hip. Touching the angel’s shoulder blade gently, Dean said, “I’m going to sit on you so I can dig in and give you a proper massage. Is that okay?”

Castiel nodded wordlessly into the pillow. He seemed fairly relaxed, even if his cheeks were pink, so Dean went with it.

Straddling Castiel’s butt, Dean settled into place, desperately trying to force his mind away from thinking about the fact that Castiel’s muscled, hard frame was  _ between his legs. _

This wasn’t  _ that _ . There’d be time for that another time, maybe. Or hopefully, if Dean was honest. He didn’t know yet what Castiel wanted, but he sure knew what  _ he _ wanted—and this gorgeous, tanned body was definitely part of it.

Very still, Castiel said, “Are you sure, Dean? You don’t have to—”

“Haven’t we established already that I want to?” Dean interrupted gently.

The fabric  _ shushed _ as Castiel nodded into the pillow. “Very well.”

They were quiet for a minute as Dean’s hands began to move, kneading and squeezing around Castiel’s shoulders and down his back, sliding slickly in the lightly scented oil. After a little time had passed, Castiel let out a soft, contented sigh, turning his head on the pillow so that it cushioned his cheek. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I haven’t felt this comfortable for quite some time.”

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Dean asked, rippling his fingers down the firm flesh either side of Castiel’s spine. He’d been rolling a thought around in his mind, and now that Castiel was gently dazed by the soporific touch of Dean’s massaging hands, he decided to ask. “The book I read—it mentioned that sometimes molt companions would, uh…groom, I guess, the feathers. The wings. Like, run their fingers through them, kinda? Help them drop out smoothly and not itch and stuff?”

If Castiel hadn’t been shirtless and pliant under Dean’s hands, he might have missed the way that he tensed back up a fraction. But as it was, he didn’t, so Dean leaned in, gently pressing his lips to the back of Castiel’s neck. “Cas? Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Castiel whispered to the pillow. “You didn’t say anything wrong. You’re correct, that is something that helps when we molt.”

Dean let the nervous silence sit for a minute. His arms tucked themselves into the sides of Castiel’s ribs, embracing him, letting his lips ghost along the back of Castiel’s neck as he eventually asked, “Are you afraid of showing me your wings, Cas?”

“No, not afraid. Embarrassed.”

“Because they’re damaged, right? From falling, after Metatron.”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t we already talk about this?” Dean coaxed. “I know your wings are damaged, Cas. I don’t care. They’re still awesome to me. You’ve got  _ wings,  _ man! Seriously, you have no idea how fucking cool that is.”

Still draped over Cas’ back, Dean felt the low rumble of a small chuckle in Castiel’s ribcage, and he knew it was going to be okay.

“You’ll have to lean back,” Castiel said, a smile in his voice. “They’re quite large, even scaled to my vessel.”

“I bet they are,” Dean said crudely, waggling his eyebrows even though Castiel couldn’t see. As instructed, he shuffled back on the bed, giving Castiel some space.

The amused huff of air Castiel let out told Dean that he’d known exactly what Dean’s expression was, even without looking.

Dean had plenty of other witty quips on his tongue, but they all fell away. With a soft  _ whooshing _ sound and a gust of air that buffeted Dean back onto his palms, leaning on the bed to steady himself, Castiel’s wings appeared.

As the wind settled, Cas’ wings beat and whipped around in the air for a moment—somehow avoiding Dean with exacting precision—and then relaxed, fluttering down to lay flat on either side of Castiel like massive, downy curtains drawn together at a point between Castiel’s shoulder blades.

The sheer size of them was astonishing.

Flowing out from Castiel’s back, they lay softly prone across Dean’s thighs and all the way down the sides of the bed, drooping down to create feathered pools on the floor that stretched out several more feet from each side of the mattress, even partially folded inward as Castiel had them. Dean wasn’t convinced that Castiel would be able to extend them fully without hitting the walls.

Dean blinked down at them, mesmerized by how alien, and yet oddly  _ familiar, _ they were. He’d seen shadows of them several times. In fact, he had a suspicion that when they’d first met, Castiel had displayed the shadows of his wings not just to prove his angelic nature, but also to show off a little.

And who could blame him? Even tattered, they were magnificent.

From the fallen feathers, Dean had expected the color: dark and inky, with that shifting, holographic effect that he could stare at for hours. But that hadn’t prepared him for how the feathers Castiel still had actually looked. It turned out that the ones Dean had been admiring—from the diner and Castiel’s room—were dull, drooping, and sad in comparison. Though the wings were bare in plenty of places, the feathers that were still attached shimmered with life and power in a way the fallen ones just couldn’t mimic. They were so  _ vibrant _ . Dean couldn’t think of a better word for them.

Dean sat gaping in wonder until Castiel shifted nervously beneath him, his gruff voice breaking the long, awe-filled silence that Dean had spent staring. “Dean?”

Immediately realizing that the nature of his silent reaction wasn’t clear to Castiel, and that Castiel had just spent the last few minutes poised nervously, unmoving, while a part of his body was judged and stared at... Dean leaned forward, slipping his arms underneath the wings to find Castiel’s sides and wrap around him. He dipped his face down between the two extra limbs, pressing his lips to the feathered spot where the joints sprouted from Castiel’s back.

“Castiel,” Dean said, the use of the angel’s full name just feeling right for the weight of his words, “your wings are beautiful. The most awesome things I’ve ever seen, no kidding. I’m sure they were even better before they burned, when they were full, but dude…they’re awesome.”

The last words Dean murmured into the incredibly soft, oily-smelling plumage at Castiel’s back, pushing down into them to press his lips and his truth into the bare skin of Castiel beneath. The feathers puffed up around his face, a bizarre but lovely sensation that Dean could only think of as tiny, incredibly gentle feather tickles across his cheeks.

Castiel let out a long sigh of relief. “That is good to hear,” he rasped gently. “I’m glad you like them.”

“Would you like me to groom them now?” Dean asked, reluctantly pulling himself back up out of the feathery pillow he’d been nuzzling into.

It was very strange to hear the stoic, blunt angel sound so shy as he said, “Uh, yes, that would be very nice if…if you’re sure? They can be quite sensitive, in some ways, and feeling the feathers loosening is just…”

Dean nodded as a tiny shiver went through Castiel’s back. “Yeah, I get it. No worries, Cas. I’m gonna take care of you.”

It seemed to be the right thing to say. Castiel pushed his face back down into the pillows, shifting with a slight breeze until he was settled once more, his wings hanging across Dean’s thighs and down to the floor. 

Tentatively at first, Dean reached for Castiel’s wings.

He’d already touched his feathers, both the fallen ones and the ones he’d just kissed, and there were longer vanes splayed over his thighs at that very moment. But somehow, deliberately touching them with  _ intention _ felt different. Hand hovering above the dark feathers, Dean held his breath as he took the time to examine the details.

Each wing was like a pool of oil spilling out onto hot tarmac, thick and stygian-colored, the light bleeding inky rainbows across the tremulous surface. The feathers were majestic, sumptuous and grandiose and every other flowery word that Dean’s high-school-dropout  _ (but perfectly well-read, thank you very much) _ brain could come up with.

“So fucking cool,” Dean whispered to himself. He didn’t need fancy words. They needed no adornment at all.

As Castiel breathed in and out, slow and lazy, more habit than necessity, the feathers rose and fell slightly with his back. Dean was enchanted.

He…was also supposed to be doing something. Whoops.

Although part of Dean wanted to focus entirely on the impressive, healthy-looking feathers, he couldn’t help when his attention drifted to the ruined parts of Castiel’s wings as he sunk his fingers down softly between the feathers near the arch. There were stretches of bare bone, stark white among the dark, scored with strange, burn-like scars. Places where, molt or not, the feathers would clearly never regrow, the roots destroyed. They were burns, Dean knew; Castiel’s wings had been ablaze when he’d plummeted from Heaven, and they’d never regrown. Castiel was crippled, by flame and magic and loss.

They didn’t look painful anymore, neither the naked, burnt stretches or the negative spaces where Castiel’s longer feathers should be. Only a few of those clung on erratically; his primaries, according to the ever-helpful Harif Ala Al-din and his precious book that Dean now had to thank for so much. Although the wounds didn’t look like they hurt, now long healed, they somehow seemed...sad.

“Do you miss it?” Dean found himself asking, cryptically, as he slid his fingers down between the feathers, almost petting at Castiel’s wings like a person would sink their hands into a dog’s fur.

Castiel’s back shuddered under Dean’s hands, but it seemed to be a pleasant motion, accented with a small hum of contentment. “Flying?” Castiel questioned, after a moment.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Unless, I mean—shit, if you don’t wanna talk about it, I’m sorry. It probably makes you feel bad.”

There was a small shrug against the pillows, then Castiel’s face turned to the side so he could answer more clearly. “I do miss it, but I’ve adjusted. I’m quite used to driving, now, or using other modes of transportation when I have to, as frustratingly slow as they all are. Riding in Baby with you is quite pleasant for me, even. I enjoy it. And I don’t mind answering your questions, Dean. It’s…”

Castiel trailed off for a moment, and Dean allowed it, letting him work out his phrasing.

“It’s nice,” Castiel eventually came back with, “to get to actually talk with you. Without fighting.”

For a moment Dean choked, thinking of all the time they’d wasted. He sunk his hands down through the feathers, slicking his hands with the almond-sweet oil from Castiel’s skin and smoothing it through the feathers in silence for a moment. Then he said, heavy with meaning, “I’m sorry, Cas.”

There were too many things to apologize for. Too many to even begin to name them, and even if he did, how pointless would it be? Wasn’t it better just to pledge to try harder, to communicate, to love each other? Apologies meant nothing, Dean always thought. It was fixing it that counted. But that didn’t mean that Castiel didn’t deserve to hear that he was sorry.

“I’m sorry, too,” Castiel rumbled back.

And that was that. Not easy, perhaps, but nothing like what Dean had sometimes built it up in his mind to be.

Dean worked steadily but softly, then, running his fingers down each feather until it was glossy with oil. He didn’t tug too hard, but whenever he came across a loose one he’d give it more attention, and sometimes it would let go like a leaf from a tree, drifting down onto the bed. Dean gathered up the fallen handfuls and set them in a pile to add to their nest, later. If that’s what Castiel wanted.

Castiel’s breathing grew easier, lighter, but faster. His chest rose and fell beneath the wings, which occasionally shifted or twitched as Dean came across a stubborn molting feather or straightened vanes that had been bent.

Dean didn’t chatter. Something about this, seeing Castiel’s wings like this for the first time, being allowed to touch, be  _ intimate _ with them in a way that he’d never even known was possible...it was special. Holy, and precious, and exhilarating. So he worked quietly, soft rustling the only sound in the warm air.

By the time Dean had finished going through both wings, Castiel was a droopy, dreamy puddle on the memory foam. Then, his “work” done, Dean leaned in toward Castiel’s spine, trailing his fingers languidly up Castiel’s skin between his wings.

He intended to press a chaste kiss to the back of Castiel’s neck, to have him roll over and tuck his wings away and see if perhaps he wanted to sleep for the night— _ together,  _ his overexcited mind announced _ , for the first time— _ but beneath his hands Castiel shuddered, a delighted gasp falling from his parted lips into the pillow.

“You liked that?” Dean asked, smirking as he experimentally ran his fingers up Castiel’s spine again, over the bumps and up into the beginnings of the feathered flesh between his shoulder blades.

Castiel let out a shuddering breath, and Dean watched his hands grasp fistfuls of the pillows. “Yes,” Castiel said, his voice low and rasping. He held less embarrassment in his voice than Dean would have expected as he said, “You’ve discovered the sensitive spot, I see.”

Dean grinned wickedly, even though Castiel couldn’t see him. “‘Sensitive’ isn’t quite the word I’d use,” he said. “Sounds to me as if you kinda like it.”

“Y-Yes,” Castiel conceded, his voice shaking as Dean deliberately raked his nails—softly, but slowly—up his back once more, massaging them down into the roots of his feathers. “It feels very…pleasant.”

“So,” Dean said, intentionally leaning in further, his words whispered breathily behind Castiel’s ear, “you’re telling me this is some kind of…angelic erogenous zone, then?”

“Not for everyone, I’m sure,” Castiel admitted, breathless, his voice rumbling even lower than usual. “Angels in their true form aren’t capable of— _ Ahhhh _ —of arousal, but…”

“But?”

“In a vessel, yes, it seems to be so, for me,” Castiel admitted.

Dean slowed his hands, pulling back a little. “There’s nothing wrong with that, Cas. Everyone has a thing, or nine. But I’ll stop if I’m making you uncomfortable, or anything. I just wanted to help you with your wings, I’m not—” Dean cleared his throat sharply. “—I’m not trying to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Castiel arched his back up into Dean’s hands without hesitation, growling immediately, “Don’t stop. Unless you want to stop! If this is too strange for you, or—”

Castiel cut off sharply as Dean rubbed his fingers down into the oiliest, sweetest part of his wings, right at the base along his spine. The angel’s voice devolved into a soft whine.

“That’s right,” Dean said coyly, delighted. “Let it out, Cas. Enjoy it.”

Dean knew that Castiel was  _ capable  _ of desire in his vessel, but up until moments ago, he hadn’t been sure if it was something that he really had any interest in. Up until now, his attachments had been brief and fleeting. The reaper chick and Meg... They’d both seemed to be more about curiosity than anything. This, Dean hoped, wasn’t that.

Castiel’s spine curled and his hips twitched against the bed beneath Dean as he leaned in close to Castiel’s neck, his hands working at the base of Castiel’s wings as he pressed words into the tan skin of his nape.

“Do you want this, Cas?” Dean asked, his voice breathy as he held his hips back, trying not to grind his already half-hard cock against Castiel, however much the soft noises and pants the angel was letting out were tempting. He wouldn’t do that, not unless—

“Yes,” Castiel answered firmly, though his voice cracked a little at the end. “Please, Dean. It feels so good knowing that it’s you, it’s your hands that are making my wings feel like this...”

Dean went to work then, taking note of Castiel’s reaction to each different finger movement that he tried, so that he could find the touches that made him gasp and squirm and moan out low and long, and offer a curated collection. Whatever this was, this wing massage thing, it seemed to be driving Castiel wild, making sounds fall from his lips that Dean had dreamed of but never even really hoped to hear.

It was so, so, so fucking hot.

Dean sucked in deep gulps of the bunker’s cool air, trying to tamp down his own arousal so that he could make this about  _ Cas _ and his feelings and needs. This was about taking care of him, making him feel good, making him—

The wings lifted with a soft  _ shush _ of feathers, taking Dean by surprise, and the joint nearest the top of them bent. Dean was suddenly surrounded with feathers, so soft and dark it was like being wrapped in a storm cloud. He was being pulled down, closer to Castiel and the filthy sounds he was making. Large, strong hands reached back, sliding almost sensuously up Dean’s thighs before gripping him firmly. Castiel grabbed hold of Dean’s ass shamelessly, yanking him forward so that his cock—now hard, pushing desperately against his sweatpants, feeling full and tight with want—pressed down into the swell of Castiel’s ass. The angel ground back up against him, letting Dean’s name out into the pillows as a breathy whimper.

“Dean,” he managed, only marginally more coherently, “is this…? Can I—”

“Yes,” was Dean’s only answer, definitive and simple. “Yes to all of it.”

Permission granted, Dean thrust his hips forward, letting Castiel feel his craving in return. It was never warm in the bunker at this time of the day, Dean usually shuffled around in his dead guy robe and pajamas to stay cozy—but here, with Castiel’s feathers around him and his hips bucking against him, Dean was sweating and trembling in a way that simply rutting against someone hadn’t done to him in years.

“Fuck,” Dean let out lowly. This was amazing, no doubt about that, but he also wanted…more.

Leaving one hand squeezing rhythmically at the base of Castiel’s wings, palpating what felt like some kind of gland—that produced the oil, maybe?—Dean slid his other hand to Castiel’s hip before easing it under his body, spreading his hand across the firm abs where his Enochian warding tattoo was inked. 

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Can I…?” Dean shifted his hand, trailing his fingers across his muscled, warm abdomen, and then down.

“Yes.” Castiel moved slowly as he lifted his pelvis, probably so as not to dislodge Dean from where he was still straddling Castiel’s butt, knees planted firmly in the memory foam either side of the angel’s hips. “Please,” Castiel added, sounding so strung out that the elastic waistband of Dean’s sweats pulled desperately away from his body, stretched over his needy cock.

Dean bit his lip. “God damn, Cas, you sound so fucking hot right now,” he admitted, pulling his weight back so Castiel could raise his ass higher, creating space for Dean’s hand to slide down to his waistband.

The fabric of Castiel’s clothes felt slightly damp, heavy with sweat and oil and precum beneath Dean’s fingers. Dean caressed his way across the hard bulge in Castiel’s pants.

Castiel pushed up onto one elbow and slipped his other hand down from where it rested behind him at Dean’s hip so that he could fumble with his belt.

Beneath him, Dean heard Castiel work the zipper on his suit pants, but even so, he was unprepared for the warmth and weight of Castiel’s fat, full cock springing out from his underwear and into Dean’s hand.

_ Holy shit _ , Dean had his hand around Castiel’s dick.

“Fuck, I can hardly believe this is happening,” Dean admitted, squeezing at Castiel’s length, trying to get some idea of its size in his palm, beyond the obvious girth.

“Dean,” Castiel let out again, more desperately this time.

Clearly, Dean realized with a grin, his words could wait. “Alright, testy,” Dean said, his own voice rasping and shaking and reminding him about his own neglected cock. That, too, could wait. “I guess my chick flick moment can wait until I’ve made you come all over the sheets, huh?”

Castiel moaned.

“Gonna come for me, Cas?” 

Dean could sense that Castiel was close already, between one of Dean’s hands working at the glands on his wings, Dean’s lips pressing breathlessly to his spine between words, and the feel of Dean’s hand wrapping around him. So, he didn’t tease, stripping Castiel’s cock firmly, adding a little pressure, pressing his thumb to the sensitive bundle of nerves under the head with every twisting pass.

Castiel shook and groaned.

“So fucking sexy,” Dean groaned out, his own hips bucking helplessly, running his own torturously-clothed cock along the valley of Castiel’s ass, wishing that he was sinking it deep between his cheeks instead, but knowing this wasn’t the time for that. Right now, this was all about Castiel. He worked harder, his own motions stilling as he focused on relentlessly drawing pleasure from the angel through his cock…and his wings.

Castiel keened and writhed and whined.

“That good, Cas?” Dean asked, already knowing the answer.

A shuddering gasp drew enough air into Castiel’s lungs for him to gasp Dean’s name. Dean could see that the arm Cas was using to push himself up off the mattress, giving Dean room to jerk his cock, was now ending in a tight fist, a twisted handful of fabric squeezed between his fingers. 

_ “Dean, Dean…” _ Castiel practically chanted, holy, like a prayer.

Dean’s chest loosened to hear it; if his name could be said like that, so reverently, so sacred, then his worn and shrivelled soul couldn’t possibly be as beyond saving as he’d always thought.

There were so many things he wanted to do with Castiel, so many things he wanted to show him, wanted to say, to taste, to keep. And now, he could. This was just the beginning, this was…

Castiel keened desperately into the pillow beneath his face as Dean sped up the movements of his hand, drawing unholy noises from the holiest of creatures. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit to a flicker of pride at how Castiel was falling apart beneath him.

“Close, Cas?” Dean asked, softly that time, his own arousal all but forgotten, momentarily, as he focused on the beauty before him.

At the last second, Castiel’s head rose from his pillow, twisting his face back to look at Dean. 

His cheeks were red. There were droplets of sweat gathered across his brow. His hair, always looking just-fucked, was giving that description new meaning. And his eyes… They were dark, his pupils blown wide and trained resolutely on Dean as if he could see nothing else.

“Dean,” he breathed out again, softer, a hitch to his breath as his hips and wings stuttered in time.

Dean was so focused on Castiel that he got to watch his eyes dilate almost impossibly further, got to see his eyebrows raise a fraction, his mouth part just enough to let out an entirely helpless puff of breath. 

“Dean…” he moaned one last time, spilling hot and thick across Dean’s determined fingers.

Leaning down awkwardly, but not caring one bit how his forty-year-old knees protested at the angle, Dean leaned in to press his lips to Castiel’s sweaty brow. He held them there, breathing him in. They didn’t move, Dean merely let go of Castiel’s spent cock to wrap his arm over his stomach instead, and his hands continued to pet at Castiel’s wings—though he drew back from the sensitive spot, arching his hand across the fluffy vanes of his coverts, instead.

Dean kissed the side of Castiel’s face again and again until Castiel twisted beneath him, rolling the rest of the way over so he could press his mouth to Dean’s. His wings should have gotten in the way, Dean thought belatedly—but they hadn’t. They’d seemed to stutter, pass translucently through the bed itself, and then disappear entirely without Castiel saying a word. Dean didn’t have enough presence of mind, or enough breath, to question it.

Raising his hips and pushing his pants the rest of the way off and onto the floor, Castiel didn’t pull away from Dean’s mouth for even a moment.

Castiel kissed Dean passionately, silent as his hands travelled down to Dean’s sweatpants and pushed them away with no hesitation, finally releasing his aching cock. Dean stayed in the same position, with Castiel twisted over onto his back beneath him, making access to his groin pretty easy. Castiel shoved the pants down Dean’s thighs as far as they could go without him moving, and took his cock in hand, never breaking their kiss.

The feel of Castiel’s hand on his dick might have sent Dean over the edge by itself, had Dean been twenty years younger. Thankfully, he got to spend a few minutes with his forehead pressed into Castiel’s, his thighs shaking, watching strong, tanned fingers jerk him slow and tight between their bodies. They shared sweaty, hot kisses but hardly any words, and when Dean was done, shaking as he obscured Castiel’s tattoos with spurts of creamy white, he flopped down onto his angel’s chest with little more than a heaving, ecstatic sigh.

Softly, fingers travelled short paths through Dean’s hair, learning new trails.

Dean raised his head from Castiel’s shoulder once his heartbeat had calmed, searching out his eyes and saying, “Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, the smallest curl of humor to his lips giving away his good mood.

“So,” Dean said, “how’re your wings feeling?”

Laughter—deep and rumbling, like the throaty purr of the Impala’s engine, Dean’s two favorite sounds—gave Castiel a full, gummy smile as he grinned up at Dean. “Good. Everything feels good.”

Dean clambered off Castiel to settle onto the mattress beside him. “We should get cleaned up,” he suggested reluctantly. “You slept last night. Do you feel like you could, tonight?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes. The molt is draining and it turns out that confessing to my love for you and entering into a sexual relationship are also quite tiring.”

“We’re going to have to work on your bedroom talk,” Dean said, stifling a chuckle. “In the morning, though. Stay?”

Snuggling back into the piles of pillows that still framed the edges of the mattress, even though they’d lost a few during their activities, Castiel smiled. “Yes, Dean. I’ll stay…with you, in our nest.”

Those words wouldn’t even have made sense to Dean a few days ago, but now he committed them to memory, to keep always.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohooo! They finally got there!
> 
> Wasn't the art all beautiful? I don't even know what to say about it anymore, because every piece blows me away. Please do head over to lizleeships [on Tumblr](https://lizleeships.tumblr.com) and [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships) if you haven't already, and give her some love there.
> 
> We have one last little chapter to wrap this all up, which I'll be posting on Tuesday. I'm going to miss these two, but there's lots more fic coming very soon...and I happen to know that Liz has some really gorgeous projects up her sleeve, too!
> 
> Thank you for reading, folks.
> 
> \- Mal <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all!
> 
> I am so excited, and also so sad, to share the last little wrap-up chapter of this fic with you. It's been so much fun to share.
> 
> As it's the last chapter, though, I do have some thanks to give out!
> 
> Firstly, of course, a huge, massive amount of love to Liz, because the project wouldn't exist in its current form without her enthusiasm. On Tumblr as [lizleeships](https://lizleeships.tumblr.com/), and Instagram [right here.](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/)
> 
> My other big loves go to my girl jscribbles. She's a fantastic writer, who has some really exciting fic coming up shortly--[I'd love for you to go check out her stuff!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jscribbles/pseuds/jscribbles) I also want to give thanks to captainhaterade the comma slayer, who I can never link to and this drives me crazy. Write something, cap, I beg you ;)
> 
> Lastly, thanks to every single one of you awesome readers who have come along for this ride. You are so very appreciated!
> 
> \- Mal <3

Dean dreamed of being on a beach, with a warm, gentle breeze moving through his hair. He had a cocktail in hand: Sex On the Beach with a silly umbrella. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Reclining on a beach chair with his legs in the sun, he watched Castiel—in a matching floral print shirt—stare down at his feet with that intense look of curiosity he often wore, an ocean the same color as Castiel’s irises lapping around his bare toes.

Wakefulness pulled at him, but for once Dean didn’t mind it—especially when the warmth turned out to be Castiel’s chest against his back, and the breeze became Castiel’s fingers, reverently trailing through his hair.

“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel rumbled, the familiar phrase now deeper and closer than Dean had ever heard it before.

Dean shifted, rolling over in the perfect body-shaped dent he’d carved into the memory foam overnight. He loved his mattress—it remembered him. Now, he hoped, it would remember Castiel, too. 

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he replied, his voice throaty and full of sleep. From the way his cheeks pinched, he realized he was smiling more than he ever usually could before his first dose of caffeine.

“I was considering going to make some coffee,” Castiel said, welcoming Dean into his arms with a smile as he spoke, “but I was concerned that you’d wake while I was gone. Modern media suggests that would have been a mistake on my part.”

Still drowsy, Dean grinned lazily against Castiel’s throat. “I’d like to pretend that I’d have been super-rational and checked the kitchen before I panicked, but let’s be real…I’d have panicked.”

Castiel’s chuckle bounced through his ribcage and into Dean’s hand where it splayed across Castiel’s bare chest. Dean’s sleepy eyes observed the shift of his fingers as they slid down and over the ink of Castiel’s warding tattoo. 

Castiel pressed his lips to Dean’s forehead before he asked, “Is it safe to make you coffee now, then?”

Still grinning, Dean rolled onto his back and settled into his pillow. “Sounds great, Cas.”

Pushing himself up out of the bed, Castiel retrieved Dean’s Zeppelin shirt from the floor, pulling it on before beginning to look around for his pants. Dean’s eyes couldn’t help but follow Castiel around the room, so he propped himself up on his pillows and shamelessly took advantage of the view. The fact that Castiel was in his bedroom, getting dressed in the morning, was so new and exciting that Dean didn’t want to miss a second of it. So he let himself stare, watching the flex of Castiel’s biceps as he—regrettably—covered up his thighs with Jimmy’s old dress pants. When he straightened, Dean noticed that his shoulders rolled beneath the shirt.

“Hey, if you’re more comfortable without a shirt right now, Cas, then don’t wear one,” he said, shrugging.

“I’m not sure if Sam would appreciate me wandering around the kitchen shirtless, Dean,” Castiel pointed out on his way to the door.

“Oh, he’s not here,” Dean said, suddenly recalling Sam’s awkward exit. “He’ll probably be back later today. He went to help Garth with a thing…possibly an imaginary thing, I’m not sure on that part. But, either way, he bailed last night.”

At that, Castiel squinted curiously, but he didn’t ask. Instead, he gave Dean one of his tiny, indecipherable smiles and simply said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Dean pushed himself out of the bed as soon as Castiel’s footsteps—soft and bare, which by itself made Dean’s chest constrict oddly—headed away from his room. Running his hands over his face, he shuffled his way quickly down the corridor to use the bathroom and jump in the shower. 

He was in a rush, so he had a three-minute motel-room shower and brushed his teeth. (He was aware it was more commonly thought of as a three-minute military shower, but he’d grown up in ancient, dingy motels sharing a hot water tank with strangers and Sam, after all.) Damp and pink and fresh, Dean was still scrubbing a towel across his hair as he headed back to his bedroom.

When he reached the door of room number 11, Dean pushed it open expecting to see Castiel already back—but the room was empty, crumpled-looking, and warm, with a faint smell of sex and wing-oil, just as Dean had left it.

Smiling, he took advantage of the time. 

Quickly donning clean boxers and sweatpants, Dean left the door open to air out the room and dropped his damp towel in the hamper, before taking the chance to neaten up their nest. He straightened the pillows and blankets, making a soft, warm space for them to recline in. Then he went about reorganizing the personal items he’d woven in amongst them—a couple of his most-worn plaid shirts, a blanket from the Impala, his dead guy robe from the back of the door; things that were unarguably  _ Dean’s. _ Once that was done, he took the pile of feathers from beside the bed where they’d tumbled—the ones that Dean had carefully groomed from Castiel’s magnificent molting wings the night before—and added some of those, too.

It looked ridiculous to human eyes, Dean decided. But whatever made Castiel happy was worth it.

He was just putting the finishing touches to the nest when Castiel arrived, a tray in hand.

“Dean,” he said softly, his eyes falling on the freshy constructed pile of pillows and possessions. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Dean froze. “You don’t like it?”

Castiel shook his head, balancing the tray in one hand while he closed the door behind him. “That’s not what I meant, at all, Dean. You’re human, though, and this means nothing to you. I understand that, and I don’t expect you to—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupted, more sharply than he’d intended. “I’m not someone that should ever be looked to for advice about love and relationships and stuff, but even so, I do know that it’s never just about one person, okay? Yeah, I’m a human, but you’re not. And that matters, too.”

The look that Castiel gave Dean was so wide-open, so full of love and appreciation, so tender and melting, that Dean briefly thought the angel might drop the breakfast tray. So he stepped forward to take it, fixing Cas with a tiny grin as he bobbed his head toward the bed.

“Might as well take advantage of Sam being away, huh?”

Castiel gave a small nod as he moved back toward the bed, still in Dean’s old  _ Madison Square Garden ’73 _ Zepp shirt and Jimmy’s crumpled pants. He took a moment at the edge of the mattress, pausing thoughtfully, before kicking the pants off, slipping into the nest, and pulling the blanket up to his chest. “This is a very nice nest, Dean. Nothing like any of the ones in Heaven, but that’s what makes it perfect.”

Pleased, Dean moved over to join him with the tray. Castiel had fetched not only two big mugs of coffee and a small thermos for refills, but he’d also procured toaster waffles and bacon. Dean couldn’t help but grin down at the tray as he placed it down on his nightstand, shuffling his handgun and a few feathers out of the way so he could make sure it wouldn’t tip over.

“You made breakfast,” Dean said, twisting to hand Castiel one of the coffees as he slipped into bed. “Are you gonna share with me?”

“No, thank you. I’m feeling somewhat better, having rested here all night and having had my wings freshly groomed.”

“So, is that it?” Dean asked, before taking a far-too-big crunch of his waffle. “All better now, molting wise?”

Castiel shook his head. “No, it will take a few more weeks yet, I think. It doesn’t seem to be passing as quickly on Earth as it would have in Heaven—I don’t know if that’s to do with Heaven itself being weak, or my wings being damaged, or even if it’s a symptom of the spell from the fall. It could be so many things. It’s taken years to even start.”

Smiling, Dean inelegantly shoved the rest of his waffle into his mouth before putting the plate back onto the nightstand and shuffling his way closer to Castiel, coffee in hand. 

“Well,” Dean swallowed harshly, gulping down the last of his breakfast so he didn’t have to speak around it, “the book suggested that angels don’t molt if they don’t feel safe doing it. I just figured that with everything we’ve had going on the past few years, maybe you just…hadn’t had enough time, you know? Time where things were calm, the world wasn’t ending, just…”

Next to him, Castiel nodded quietly as Dean trailed off.

“No matter what, or however long it takes,” Dean broke the momentary silence and reached across to pull Castiel into his side, “it won’t be so bad now, Cas. I can groom your wings whenever you need.”

Castiel smiled up at Dean, almost shy, but Dean could see the pleased gleam in his eye. “Thank you. I’m glad that won’t be just a one-time thing.”

Dean slipped a wolfish grin onto his face. “Oh, no way. The way you reacted to me touching your wings? You don’t need to be molting for  _ that. _ ”

His eyes dropping to his coffee, Castiel looked at the shiny black surface before bringing it up to his lips to take a sip. Dean watched his shoulders tense slightly, but he couldn’t work out why until Castiel turned to him and said, “So you do…want this to be, uh, a new normal, I suppose, for us? I had wondered if, when Sam gets back, you might want things to go back to how they were, or at least keep up that appearance.”

“Cas, no,” Dean said immediately, disappointed. “That’s what you think? That I wouldn’t want to tell Sam? That loving you would just be…I dunno, some kind of dirty little secret?”

Castiel shrugged, his nerves obvious. “I don’t know, Dean. There must be reasons this hasn’t happened before.”

Dean eyed Castiel flatly in response, before reaching over to put his coffee mug on the nightstand. He could have been angry. Maybe he should have been; the comment hardly reflected well on his character. But…was it really so wrong, with the way Dean had acted over the years? It was, as much as it sucked, a valid question. 

Dean took a deep breath, then he turned back to Castiel and cradled his cheek, smiling, watching his thumb trail over Castiel’s stubble. “Sure, there are reasons. Just like there are reasons you never showed me you wanted more than what we had, either. I love you. It’s taken me years to say it, so I’m not taking it back now. Not anywhere, for anyone. I want this, and you—I want you to  _ stay, _ Cas, y’hear me? ”

The soft, happy flush that colored Castiel’s cheeks as he nodded was fucking adorable. “Yes, Dean. I’ll stay.”

“In fact,” Dean said, reaching over to grab his phone from the nightstand, where it sat next to the breakfast tray, “c’mere.”

Castiel quirked a brow curiously, but he seemed more than happy to snuggle up under Dean’s outstretched arm. Raising the phone up in front of them, Dean tugged Castiel into his side before he turned his head, pressing his lips to Castiel’s softly. He snagged a picture of the two of them, shirtless against the pillows, eyes drifted closed as they gently kissed. They savored it, everything between them still new, and yet so old that their nest felt like home.

Once they’d pulled apart, Dean showed Castiel the picture, before attaching it to a text message for Sam.

**_Dean: All good here. Come on home whenever you want, so you can say hi to my new_ **

Dean stopped typing suddenly, his fingers hovering above his phone keys. He slid his eyes over to Castiel, to find that Castiel was looking at him intensely. He smiled.

**_boyfriend._ **

Grinning, his chest buzzing like he’d just killed an entire vamp nest, Dean hit send.

The best part was the way Castiel grinned back at him—unrestrained, all white teeth and crinkling eyes—causing Dean’s heart to thump sharply against his already-aching ribcage. Fuck, this was…“awesome” didn’t seem like enough of a word, but it was all Dean had. He couldn’t possibly have expected this three days ago, but here they were.

“You look happy,” Castiel said, sounding pretty damn pleased with himself.

“I really am,” Dean said, slipping the phone onto the nightstand and turning back to wrap both arms around Castiel. “So, how about we celebrate with blow jobs before drinking the rest of this coffee?”

Dean’s back hit the mattress under a blur of eager angel, and he barely had time to flick his eyes over to the side as his phone buzzed and lit up with a response to his text.

**_Sam: HOLY SHIT! FINALLY!_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sam: Also, gross, put on a damn shirt before you send pictures._
> 
> That's mine and Liz's headcanon for what Sam says next, just FYI ;)
> 
> I'm so sad that this is over! But again, thank you. You're the best!
> 
> \- Mal <3
> 
> P.S. You can find me [here on Tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/), if you wish. I also have a bunch of fic coming up I thought I'd let you know about--all very varied, but all with happy endings, as always. 
> 
> I'll be turning my attention to finishing my other current canon fic, [Hold On, Holy Ghost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287952/chapters/53228665), for a dose of canon fun. I also have a whole fic coming up later this week as part of DeanCas Pinefest! It's a gritty, monster-hunting case fic with lots of pining and romance, set in the regency era. I wrote it with [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz), and I'd urge you to give it a try even if you think that fics from that era aren't your thing, because I'm hoping the supernatural adventure and enemies-to-friends-to-lovers soft boys will keep you interested ;) After that, next week, I have my fic for SPN MBB coming up, which is a Destiel fic based on the cheesy Netflix movie "Falling Inn Love". 
> 
> I happen to know that Liz ALSO has some exciting projects up her sleeve, so make sure you're following her Instagram and Tumblr so you don't miss out on her gorgeous art!
> 
> (One final note, if you enjoyed this fic and you're looking for more with similar tropes, and by some miracle you have not read it, I must recommend [Grooming Instincts, by the ever-lovely jemariel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13717875/chapters/31513260)!)


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